Impressions
by ktfoo
Summary: Clarice is finally moving on with life after the Bureau, when she receives a visit from an old friend-or whatever Dr. Lecter is to Clarice. Movie-verse, Hannibal x Clarice.
1. 1: The Glory and the Dream

Hello everyone!

This fan-fiction will be following the movie canon past Hannibal, taking place a year or two later.

There's one tiny alteration—I really preferred the use of the A. A. Adams correspondence in the book Hannibal to get Clarice put on suspension. I found it more believable, so I'm keeping it—just a minor point. If you haven't read the books—SPOILER***—rather than planting a postcard, Mason Verger gets Clarice by responding to a request for correspondence from Hannibal Lecter to Clarice, publicly, by addressing a personals ad to A.A. Adams.

I don't own the works I quote or the characters of Thomas Harris.

Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**: **The Glory and the Dream**

_Whither is fled the visionary gleam?_

_Where is it now, the glory and the dream?_

_-William Wordsworth_

The sun had long since settled below the edge of the horizon when the Mustang pulled in to the drive. The neighborhood wasn't too far from town, but the houses were amply spaced and thickly hidden by trees.

A woman trudged inside.

Clarice locked the door, unbelted her holster, and poured herself a whisky in the dark. Usually, when she got home, she would check the pile of mail left by the neighbor kid, catch up on news, eat some real food, and take a long shower. Tonight, she doubted she would make it off the couch.

_Lost another lamb, have you, Clarice? _

His voice was still in her head after all this time.

The child's dead body had gone cold in her arms. She'd heard him scream before they killed him. Another voice for her nightmares.

For four days she'd hunted practically without sleep, but she couldn't sleep now. Instead, she lay down, and stared out the window at the night.

* * *

The next day was a Sunday. Clarice couldn't stand being still anymore and had managed to pass out for only an hour before the nightmares. Before full sunup, she was at the office.

There weren't any big cases at the moment, but a lot of paper-pushing to get done. Her new setup was nothing like the Bureau. After what happened (she refused to think about her last days as an Agent, referring to them simply as _what happened_), she didn't have much of a chance left at the Bureau and hadn't really felt like taking it.

No one understood why she refused the rape kit. _He's not the one I was violated by_, she had wanted to say, _the _Bureau_ violated me_. Instead, she resigned before someone found an excuse to terminate her.

Life ran differently now. Crawford had quietly passed her information to a small PI group running out of Pennsylvania. They specialized in finding missing children. Lambs. She had driven up to talk to them, and Peter Rowe, the man in charge, had been—refreshing.

"We don't make money, we take bad press, we put our lives in danger, and we spend a lot of time feeling hopeless and frustrated, but every now and then we get to save an innocent life. You still interested?" he had asked.

She fit right in.

From their Philly-suburb office, they could get anywhere on the East Coast within a day, and took cases everywhere. Petty squabbling between parents took up most of their time, but they got the occasional ransom, sometimes a runaway.

Rowe hadn't lied about the workload, though. The only functioning thing in the office was the coffee pot. They didn't have the resources, support, or firepower she was used to. Hell, Clarice didn't even have an intimidating badge anymore—but she got to fight for something that actually mattered. It was worth it.

She worked on files, reports, and a little research before Rowe came in around lunch time.

"What the hell you doing here, Starling?"

"Couldn't sleep. Might as well finish the write-up on the O'Caugnahan case."

Rowe sighed, leaning on her desk. He was the same age as Clarice, but easily looked ten years older with the circles under his eyes that never seemed to disappear. He only bothered dressing up when he had to; apparently his wife had dragged him to church today, because he was in his only brown suit.

"We've both lost one before," he said, finally, "Work through it however you need. Just don't beat yourself up about this. We all did what we could."

"I know, sir."

"Ask for help if you need it, Starling. You can take as much time off as you think you need."

"Thanks, but I'd rather be here."

He nodded, straightening. "I'm just here to pick up some files I left, anyways. Try to get some rest, okay?"

"I'll try."

Rowe scanned the piles on his desk, cluttered in a meticulous way only he understood.

"Oh, right, the mail…" he muttered.

Clarice kept typing. She was procrastinating on the worst details for the report on yesterday's failure. It was dragging on. That's why she noticed the unusual silence coming from her boss's desk.

He was staring, or rather glaring, at a slip of paper.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Eviction notice," Rowe said.

"What?"

"For when we've lagged on utilities, and the "threat our presence poses to other tenants." We can either pay extra fees for our "increased risk" or get out."

"Is that legal?"

"Seems so."

Clarice cursed.

"Don't worry about it, Starling. I'll think of something. Nothing's put us under yet, not in twelve years."

"Let me know if I can do anything. Look up other buildings. Call a lawyer."

"Will do, but it can wait until tomorrow. Clarice, you should come to lunch with us. How long has it been since you ate?"

She hesitated, wondering how honest to be that she couldn't remember exactly how many days it had been since that gas station stakeout food.

"Come on, then. You can't survive off caffeine alone. I can drop you off back here after."

Peter Rowe really was a good man, so Clarice tried hard to smile at him, and accepted.

* * *

Exhaustion dripped into her frame slowly. Clarice felt it taking over, but still she didn't sleep. Insomnia was just one of the job risks.

She had ended up coming home early. The details of the report would have to wait until she'd slept, and there was no more busy work to do at the office.

In desperation, she opened the drawer beneath her stereo in the kitchen. She'd long since had the tapes converted to CD to have a backup, but still she played the tapes, and so far they hadn't worn out.

"_Hello, Clarice." _

Listening to those conversations again calmed her down. She liked to see how far she'd come, how much healthier her mind was now outside of the FBI. She enjoyed remembering the success of that case—she'd lost too many since then.

On nights like this, beyond exhaustion, she could admit, too, that she just missed the Doctor.

_To have a voice that understands. _

"God, I need a hobby. Or a dog." But with being gone one week out of every two on a case, she never seemed to find the time. Sometimes Ardelia called. Sometimes she read—she was slowly getting through the classics, the ones _he_ always quoted. Every now and then, when a case went right, she went to a symphony. Tonight, though, Clarice just settled on the couch and let the Doctor's voice lull her to sleep.

* * *

Caffeine and alcohol got her through the next few days. Rowe kept her workload light, sending other members of their tiny staff out on the risks. By Thursday, Clarice needed to get out of the office or she thought she'd snap and start burning paperwork.

Thankfully, at least for Clarice's sanity, they got a call that day. Rowe and Clarice were alone in the office, the other three investigators out on business.

"Rowe and Co. Private Investigations, this is Rowe," he'd said, picking it up, "Oh, hello Mrs. Engle…Again?...Give us fifteen minutes, someone will be there…You're welcome."

"The couple from paradise again?" Clarice asked after he hung up.

"Yep. Apparently they're on the splits again."

"As usual, he took Quentin?"

"As usual."

Mr. and Mrs. Engle were an on-again, off-again couple whose raging drug abuse and screaming fights had nearly gotten their six-year-old son, Quentin, taken by the CPS. Mrs. Engle had no car since she'd wrecked it on a DUI, so when her husband left with their only working vehicle she was stranded. She never called the police because Mr. Engle still had custody, so there wasn't much they could do, and on top of that they might look too closely at the fresh needle tracks in her arms. Thus, about once a month, Rowe & Co. PI got a call to find Quentin.

"Let me take this one, Rowe."

"…You sure, Starling?"

"Yeah. I've dealt with them before. It's a low risk case. I need out."

"Okay. Call if you need anything."

"Will do. Thanks."

Ten minutes later, she pulled up the dirt road to the Engle house. Mrs. Engle sat on the porch stoop, rocking and crying. Clarice kneeled beside her.

"Mrs. Engle? It's me, Clarice Starling. Peter Rowe sent me. Are you okay?"

"Clarice! Thank the Lord! You have to find them!"

"I will, Mrs. Engle. I just need you to tell me what happened this time."

A long, broken explanation followed. Nothing unusual—they were fighting. Scott—Mr. Engle—hit her, took Quentin out of bed, and ran. He'd said he was never coming back this time, and he really meant it.

"Please, Miss Clarice. I just want my baby back."

"I'll do my best, ma'am. If you want to file for domestic abuse, I can give you the number."

"Oh, I don't know. Scott was just in one of his moods. It doesn't really happen that often. Please."

"All right. In that case, try to eat something and get some rest, okay? You can't help Quentin if you're exhausted."

"Thank you…"

Clarice gently took the woman's shoulders and led her inside and onto the couch. Mrs. Engle might not move again, but it was all Clarice could do, and she was hardly one to judge.

* * *

Sometimes Mr. Engle took Quentin to the park. This was not one of those times. She slowly cruised by his favorite drug stops, but didn't find him there, either.

_Great. _

The next place to stop at was a grimy motel that didn't operate strictly within the law. Clarice pulled up at a spot in the back, away from the lobby. His car was here. She knew where he would be.

After scanning the car in case he'd left Quentin inside, she slid to the door of room 14, knocking loudly.

"Mr. Scott Engle, are you in there? Quentin?"

There was a pause in the obscene noises from within.

"I'm looking for Quentin Engle."

Some banging. A creaking.

The door opened a crack. Mr. Engle stood on the other side, wearing only his underwear.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, Mr. Engle. I'm Clarice Starling, PI."

"We met."

"I'm looking for your son. I'm told you left with him early this morning. Is he in there?"

"He's my son. You can't take him away."

"He is your son, sir, but the fact that you're currently hiding him in the bathroom with a prostitute makes it my business. Mrs. Engle is considering filing for abuse."

"That bitch!"

"I understand that you hit her. Now you brought your son into a motel room with a hooker. It's not looking good for you, sir, but if you cooperate I can help."

"She threw a bottle at me!"

Clarice nudged the door open a little more. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. It missed. But she's dangerous! I can't take Q back there!"

"Is it really better for him to be here?" Clarice stepped in while the door was still open.

"I…I was just lying low here…Rochelle's a friend…"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Mr. Engle. You have to explain it to Quentin. Is this the life you want for him?"

"Scotty! This brat smells bad!" a nasally voice called from the bathroom.

Clarice raised an eyebrow at him.

"Don't talk about my son that way!"

"What? He does!" The bathroom door cracked open and Quentin tumbled out, followed by a naked woman.

"Oh. She still here?" the woman said.

"…I don't want to go home. Take Q. He shouldn't be here," Mr. Engle said. His eyes never left Rochelle's body to see his son on the floor, pants soiled.

Clarice picked the boy up.

"Hi, Quentin. Remember me?"

Quentin nodded silently.

"You want to go home?"

Another nod.

Cradling Quentin's head into her neck so he wouldn't have to see any more, Clarice left. The door slammed behind her.

* * *

Mr. Engle had left his car unlocked, so Clarice took Quentin's backpack and let him change clothes in a McDonald's bathroom. She bought him a meal, but he barely spoke. When they were almost back to the Engle house, she had to say something.

"Quentin, does this happen a lot?"

She already knew the answer. Still, the boy nodded.

"Mommy and Daddy have a lot of problems. Grown-up problems that, unfortunately, you have to deal with too. It's not your fault, though. You are still a good kid, okay? No matter what they do."

Quentin was silent.

"I'm going to give you my card. Do you have a phone?"

A nod.

"And you can read numbers?"

"To ten."

"Well, if you ever feel like you're in danger, or your house is too scary, call me. Just punch in the numbers like they are on the card. Can you do that, Quentin?"

A nod. A card, put wordlessly in a pocket.

"Call me if you get too hungry, too, okay?"

This nod was a little more vigorous. She could tell by looking at him that there wasn't much food in the house.

Clarice didn't want to return the boy and he didn't want to go. Still, both marched out of the car. Mrs. Engle ran down the drive to hug her son. He didn't move. Mrs. Engle thanked Clarice profusely.

"Remember what I said, okay, Quentin?" Clarice asked. The boy nodded.

Clarice forced herself to drive away. For now, that would have to be enough.

* * *

"Doesn't ever get easier, does it?" Clarice asked Rowe when she got back to the office.

"Never. Quentin okay?"

"As much as he can be."

"Where was Scotty-boy this time?"

"Rochelle's."

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

Clarice finished her reports—she'd even done the one from last weekend, now—and started sifting through the mail that Rowe never got to. Utility bill. Thank-you card. Advertisement. Cable internet bill. Invitation to the Police Gala.

She froze.

She nearly dropped all of her papers, and shakily sat. Carefully angling behind her computer screen, Clarice stared at the envelope.

It was not addressed to her, but Rowe &Co. PI. Still, that perfectly aligned calligraphy could come from only one person.

Clarice glanced at Rowe. He was still wrapped up in something, so she opened the envelope.

Inside were a money order and a note. The "from" field on the money order was left blank, but it was addressed to Rowe & Co, for a large sum of money.

Clarice tried to read the note but couldn't. She realized her hands were shaking. She set it down.

_ Hello. _

_ I was recently enlightened of your unfortunate circumstances. I believe this should cover expenses for a few months. If not, please consider putting it to use to acquire legal counsel. As the Stoic said, nothing is made worse or better by praise, so I need not commend you, but—keep up the good work. _

_ Warm regards,_

_ A friend. _

When she could breathe again: "Rowe? You'd better come look at this."


	2. 2: Bloodshod

Hello everyone! Thank you for the kind reviews! This chapter is a little shorter but a little more exciting, too :3

Enjoy!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: Blood-Shod  
**

_You…tell with such high zest_

_To children ardent for some desperate glory_

_The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est_

_Pro Patria Mori. _

_-Wilfred Owen  
_

Clarice was slowly learning the bird calls of every species in Pennsylvania. Since the note from "a friend" had arrived, her insomnia had worsened. Living in the woods did have its advantages, though. She took her coffee outside in the mornings to watch the sunrise.

Rowe had taken the money, in the end—after some natural suspicion. His need for rent overcame his desire not to be indebted to a stranger. Clarice couldn't help but wonder—_seriously? A check in the mail? That's how he gets in contact, after all these years? _

She didn't mention that she knew the sender. The letter, unspoken of, rested in a drawer in the office. She was still working through why she said nothing—spite for the Bureau? Thanks for his help? Confusion over his motives?

…Worry for his safety?

She shook her head, muttered, "All of the above," and went inside.

* * *

The usual headaches continued. Clarice spent a week tracking down a teenager who had been hiding at his girlfriend's house. He'd written a fake kidnapping note, hoping that was enough to disappear forever. Clarice didn't even bother verbally thrashing him, simply pulled out her phone.

"Hello, Mr. Redding? I've found your son. He's at 204 Oak Hill Road. He wasn't kidnapped. You'll be here soon? Excellent."

At that point the son attacked her, so she held him at gunpoint until his father showed up. After she explained, the father, enraged, offered to let her shoot a leg.

"Not worth the bullet, but thanks. Save us the resources and just let him go next time."

"There won't be a next time. Thank you, Ms. Starling."

The boy had whimpered on her way out.

Slamming the car door, she whipped out to the street and headed back to work. She was furious. The Reddings had a good home—a safe home. Why would someone waste a relationship with their family like that?

_Many people still take it for granted, Clarice. They haven't learned the lessons we have. _

The long drive back to town through the Pennsylvania backwoods calmed her down. The radio buzzed some news story about cold cases being reopened states away. Apparently files had appeared saying that some doctor had mistreated patients. Clarice nearly pressed mute, wanting to avoid more horrors today, when a familiar name popped up: _Dr. Frederick Chilton._

Someone had unearthed medical records from Baltimore and sent them to a newspaper. The broadcasters speculated as to why the files weren't sent to the state or the FBI, if they reported such abuse. Clarice knew. Someone would cover it up. People had covered up for Chilton a long time, even after his disappearance.

The broadcasters continued chatting. "In light of this new evidence, it is unlikely that Dr. Chilton will receive the posthumous awards the APA and the city of Baltimore were planning to bestow him. Neither party would offer comment, but it seems somehow convenient, doesn't it?

"Well, we know you're dying to know: what did Chilton do that was so abominable? So far we have few confirmations, but the rumors say it included the torture and—"

Clarice hit the mute button. Her mind raced.

Narrowing her attention to each breath, Clarice focused completely on driving. Only two people knew just how dead Dr. Chilton was. Some part of her could almost believe he had deserved it, but she didn't want to know why. She didn't want to picture Dr. Lecter surviving torture by reciting recipes for human flesh.

_Did you use those recipes on him, Dr. Lecter_?

When she pulled up, Scott Engle was waiting in the parking lot.

"Goddamnit, what now?" Clarice said under her breath as she got out of the car. This was quickly becoming her worst day since arriving in Pennsylvania.

"You fucking country cunt," he snarled, stalking up to her.

"My name is Starling, Mr. Engle."

"I don't give a shit! You called CPS, didn't you? They took Q away! This is your fault!"

"I was reported what I was legally obligated to. That's all. Now, please get off my company's property."

"You can't do this! You can't stop me from raising my _son_. Foster case isn't _safe_."

"If that's what you believe, you should have considered it earlier."

"It's what I know. I grew up there. Please—please—I just don't want that for Q. He's such a good kid. I know I'm not good to him. I'll be better…"

"I'm not the one you need to be telling, Mr. Engle."

He growled something incomprehensible before reaching into his jacket. Clarice was faster, though.

A standoff.

"Drop the gun," she ordered. He didn't. "Drop the gun or I will shoot you. This isn't helping your case, either."

Mrs. Engle emerged from the car. "Scotty! Drop the damn gun. This isn't what you said. You said she could help!"

"Shut up, Marcy! This is your fault, too."

"No! You can't!" She was running for them across the parking lot. Both of them, Clarice noted, were sweating and shaking. Mr. Engle flipped his gun to his wife, who didn't notice the deadly weapon.

"Mr. Engle-!" Clarice shouted.

Engle was crying when he unloaded his pistol. The bullets scattered everywhere, but one hit its mark. Marcy Engle fell.

Her husband joined her with a single shot from Clarice's .45.

* * *

A few more long and sleepless days.

Rowe tried to force her to take time off, but she kept showing up while he was out. Clarice heard too much in the silence. She needed movement, needed work. She needed to prove to herself that she was strong enough to keep fighting.

In her spare time she was running more than was healthy. Forgetting to eat. It showed. Rowe said, once, that she wasn't dealing with this the right way.

"What's the right way to deal with orphaning a boy, then?" she asked. He dropped the subject.

She was the only one in the office a week later when the mail arrived. Nothing unusual, except a letter from Child Protective Services, Philadelphia branch.

* * *

_To Ms. Clarice Starling of Rowe and Company Private Investigations,_

_ I wanted to take the time to personally thank you for your work above and beyond the call of duty in the case of Quentin Engle. We received your initial report with concern and put the child into the custody of the state, as you know. Your follow-up report has proven extremely helpful as well. Without you we never would have found his estranged aunt in New Jersey, who has now gladly accepted Quentin into her family of four. He seems to be healing there and should begin school by next week. _

_ I have heard of the unfortunate incident you were involved in with his parents and I wanted to extend my apologies. The Engles were a deeply disturbed couple, but you have blessed Quentin with a new chance at life. It's rare for me to see someone care so deeply about a stranger in my line of work, so, from the bottom of my heart,_

_ Thank you,_

_ Marianna Velasquez_

_ Director CPS, Philadelphia_

* * *

Clarice read the letter again, and then once more. This was the first she'd heard of an aunt in New Jersey. Maybe someone else from Rowe had sent the report and they'd just assumed it was still her? She'd ask later, when everyone was in the office again.

Hands shaky, Clarice started the coffee pot afresh for the third time that day. She knew she was burning out. Too much longer and she would start making dangerous mistakes. Maybe actually taking a day off would do her some good.

Not this week, though.

* * *

Ardelia called, when news hit about the shooting. The Tattler was loving it: "_Ex-FBI Agent continues kill streak!"_ A few of the younger journalists even called her looking for a comment. The older dogs knew better by now.

Clarice got through her days. The nightmares abated some, eventually. Every now and then she let herself take a drink or two to sleep, although she feared the deep well of alcoholism she'd seen fellow agents dive into. She half-heartedly planned a weekend in Philadelphia. Something busy. Rowe finally let her take a travel-case again.

When she got home from that, the mail was piled up on the back porch as always. Opening her wallet, she left a few bills in their place for the neighbor.

In the kitchen, Clarice microwaved something prepackaged. She wasn't so grungy or tired as cases in other cities usually left her. As an afterthought, she turned some music on, and began sorting the mail while she swayed in time to old jazz.

Halfway through the stack, her dancing froze. The music turned to buzzing in her ears. The envelope was unmarked, except for her name on the back. It must have been hand-delivered.

* * *

_My dear Clarice,_

_ How times change! So close to true Appalachia again—does your accent go unnoticed here? I would love to know if it still thickens when you are angry. _

_ I believe you must be very angry lately. So many lambs going missing. I have read the news about Quentin Engle. I confess, I am glad you killed the father in self-defense. I hope you do not feel misplaced guilt over it. I know you would feel far more had I learned earlier that he planned to hurt you and given him the miserable fate he deserved—although this guilt would also be misplaced. I understand the aunt I referred to CPS in your name has now adopted the boy. I thought it would make you happy. Does it?_

_ I would like to thank you, Clarice. Somehow, the FBI never heard about the injury to my hand. That has been pivotal in maintaining my freedom. You also, it seems, never told your boss about who sent that envelope. Is it possible that you are losing some of your Protestant idealism? I hope so. Our lives could be much more fun without it. _

_ These actions confirm my suspicions—my hopes—that you, too, see our relationship beyond that of a criminal and an ex-agent. How might we differ if we met under different circumstances? May I see you again, Clarice? _

_ I will look for your response in the usual way. I tire of checking the A sections, though, and who knows who is watching—let my name this time be something inconspicuous. Thomas Harris, shall we say? _

_ My warmest regards,_

_ Hannibal Lecter, M.D._

_ PS: Quid Pro Quo. You never told me: Do the lambs still scream?_

* * *

Clarice never finished eating that night.

* * *

Rowe officially banned Clarice from the office that weekend. He threatened to change the locks and not give her a key if she didn't take some time off. To get out of the house, she just started driving.

Too much breakfast at a corner diner turned out to be just what she needed. The food was better than anything she reheated at home, and the coffee didn't taste like dirt.

Absently, she flipped through a copy of the New York Times. There was little to read if one avoided bad news, like Clarice did lately. She got enough of it in daily life.

She tried to resist, but couldn't stop herself from opening to the personals. Even though she'd sent in the ad herself, it was still surreal to see it printed there.

* * *

_To Thomas Harris: _

_In answer to all of your questions, yes._

_-C_

* * *

She still couldn't quite believe she'd actually sent it. For better or worse, though, it was done now.

She wasn't sure what to do with the rest of her weekend. She could read. She hadn't been able to in several weeks. She could blast music too loud and watch mindless television. She could have a long bath and maybe even sleep.

Surprisingly, she did manage sleep, and all the rest. The next day, Sunday, moved just as slowly. She took a long walk, surveying her wood-line. She weeded her meager garden. Halfway through the day, she nearly didn't check her mailbox—why bother? Mail didn't run on Sundays. Then she remembered how her last message from _a friend_ had been hand-delivered, and checked anyways.

Inside her mailbox was a single ticket to the Philadelphia Orchestra.


	3. 3: The World Is Not Enough

Sorry for the wait! Here you go. Enjoy!

* * *

_I__ know how to hurt, and I know how to heal._

_I know what to show and what to conceal._

_I know when to talk, and I know when to touch._

_No one ever died from wanting too much…_

_The world is not enough,_

_But it is such a perfect place to start, my love. _

_-Garbage_

* * *

The ticket sat on Clarice's table and stared at her for days.

Her mind raced—to go? Not to go? To go and bring back-up? To bring weapons? Would she need them? What did Dr. Lecter have planned, exactly? It was impossible to know. At least it gave her something to obsess over other than her work.

Rowe noticed the change, too, and eased up a bit. Office bantering returned to normal. She bitched about the cheap coffee and he retaliated by assigning her the day's paperwork.

Friday, the day of her—engagement—finally came, and Clarice was still undecided. If Dr. Lecter wanted to harm her, he obviously could already, but what was she walking in to? More importantly, should the FBI know? She shook her head at the imposing ticket and left for her morning run. It was still there, and she was still undecided, when it was time to head out for work.

The day was light and dull—mostly background research, some aiding her fellow detectives in the field from a computer. She knew it was necessary work, and she'd been hired because Rowe couldn't handle all the background work anymore, but always she itched for the field again. Clarice was glad for the afternoon break of walking outside for the mail. Automatically, she walked and sorted it at once, opening the door with her hip.

Rowe grunted at the pile sloughed on his desk, and Clarice sat to open her own. There was the typical stuff—messages from lawyers and the police department, as well as other detectives, something from the newspaper. One letter in particular, though, caught her eye. It was written in a script she didn't recognize, with no return address.

The inside simply read:

**You'll get what's coming to you, Agent Starling, murderer, lover of Satan.**

Quickly, she flicked it over. There were no other marks.

"Rowe?"

"Yes?"

"Get me an evidence bag."

"What's up?"

"Death threats again."

"Again?"

"It's been a while. Guess they found my new address."

"This a common thing for you, Starling?"

"After the Lecter case, yes. I'm guessing it's the new media coverage."

"Sorry about that…" he handed her the bag.

"Don't worry about it. I've seen them before."

"Want me to call it in?"

"No, I'll get to it. We only keep them on file just in case. Nothing's ever come of them before."

"All right. You sure you're okay?"

"Peachy."

Clarice's laser-focus was back. She would not let one letter ruin this day. It was more harmless hate-mail from random strangers too cowardly even to sign their names. Nothing new. Nothing special.

She'd really thought they were gone, though, when she left the FBI. Rowe didn't mention the single tear he saw roll from her eyes.

Clarice didn't want to think about this. She didn't want to stay up tonight staring at the tree line, wondering when a crazy would finally get close enough. One night, one night she wanted without any weight on her shoulders. She decided. She was going to the Orchestra.

* * *

How did she still have time to worry about how she looked? She guessed it was because she couldn't afford any Gucci shoes. And with her hair cut short, as she had it now—she hadn't tried to make it classy while short, ever. Cheap hairspray and Evian skin cream was just going to have to work.

She just barely made it to Philadelphia through the traffic. The Orchestra was housed in the sweeping Kimmel Center, the main hall of breath-taking proportions. Inside, she was ushered to her seat. Trying not to tremble, she absently slid between the aisles, eyes darting like a frightened deer.

"Ma'am?" the usher asked.

"Yes?"

"I asked, are you okay?"

"Yes, I think I'll just sit down, thank you."

The theater wasn't entirely full yet, but she couldn't spot him anywhere. Until she arrived at her seat, she didn't even notice the envelope awaiting her in it.

Clarice tried to open it calmly instead of tearing into it. She almost managed.

* * *

_Clarice,_

_I am pleased you made it this evening. Unfortunately we will be unable to sit together. Do not trouble yourself trying to find me. Our meeting will come, in good time. _

_Please, enjoy the show. May I suggest you take a break at the side entrance during the intermission? I find it far more refreshing than the anteroom's crowds. I hope you will, too. _

_Be seeing you,_

_H._

* * *

The blood in her head constricted her throat. Clarice closed her eyes and tried to breathe. He was here, somewhere, and she was playing by his rules. Why had she agreed to this?

She should have known better, but here she was, and she'd be damned it she would let him win this stupid game by default. She would find him and find out why the hell he'd decided to drop into her life again.

Peering around furtively proved useless. She didn't see his face once. She even asked the usher, but he brushed her off with a look of pity. Eventually, Clarice had no choice but to sit down and listen. The Orchestra was very good. Although she didn't know much of this kind of music, and although she was distracted, Clarice enjoyed it.

The minutes to intermission dragged. She left five minutes before the scheduled break.

The side entrance was deserted. Even the corner grill wasn't generating much of a crowd, and where she stood was dark.

Dismay, exhilaration, fear, and annoyance vied for her attention. She shoved them aside and looked with an inspector's eyes. There was nothing, at least nothing she could easily find. Minutes passed.

She was about to give up when a black Jaguar slowly rolled up. Clarice stopped and watched with some trepidation. It stopped in front of her. The door opened.

A man in a valet's uniform emerged.

"You seen an old guy?" the valet asked, looking back and forth.

"Excuse me?"

"Older guy, nice suit. He insisted I bring his car around to this side, but he ain't even here."

_What is this game you're playing, Dr. Lecter? _

Clarice stumbled towards the car. "It's a pretty beast," she slurred, running her hands across it. Improvisation was a handy tool as a private investigator, especially when certain people threw dirty tricks at you. Like leaving the only clues to their whereabouts with a random valet.

"Hey, if you're not the owner, back off!"

"But it's such a nice car…I've always wanted a Jag." Clarice stumbled again, barely catching herself. The valet angrily clomped towards her.

"I think you had enough, lady." He hoisted her up, dragging her back towards the side door. She leaned on him enough to make it convincing.

"Thanks, officer," she said, crashing into the door. She kept up her not-quite-a-straight-line walk until she was sure the valet had given up on her.

Around the corner, she opened the envelope that had been taped under the driver's side wheel well.

* * *

_Very good Clarice,_

_I am impressed you made it this far, but to catch that valet, you would have had to leave the show early. Tut tut, Clarice. I had hoped you would enjoy it more. Oh well._

_If you want your next hint, you should find you already have it. Look for an old friend of ours. He'll show you the way._

_I look forward to being found out._

_-H. _

_PS—The list of performers is quite extraordinary. Have you noticed? They are all apparently very well educated._

* * *

"Already have it? The performers? Why can't you be straightforward for once?"

The first half of the letter seemed indecipherable for the moment, so Clarice focused on the postscript. The list of performers? There was only one place Clarice might find that—the program. She dug the paper out of her purse. Indeed, next to each musician was listed a prodigious music school. But why would that matter? She scanned the list, but nothing stood out.

"I already have it!" she whispered with the sudden realization. She ripped through the remaining pages, scanning for a name she recognized.

She passed the performers' names and was well into the paid advertising before she found a name she recognized.

The ad read:

**Gumb Cable Services**

**We set up cable, internet, and telephone lines for one flat rate! We also specialize in helping you set up your business phone directories! Please call today at XXX-XXX-XXXX!**

The advertisement was tacky, its bright colors more typical of a classified ads section. Beneath the poorly-written propaganda was a block of fine print. It was exactly the kind of thing one wouldn't expect of Dr. Lecter, which is why she latched on to it.

The fine print became almost totally nonsensical.

"GCS cannot be held responsible for any of the following: missing cables, stolen cable, static feed, low bandwidth, and blue screens. In the state of California, some televisions have been linked with cancer. We're also not responsible for that. Commercial callings should be directed to XXX-XXX-XXXX. Customer service callings should be directed to XXX-XXX-XXXX. Technical support can be reached at XXX-XXX-XXXX. Erratic callings should be directed to XXX-XXX-XXXX."

The last sentence seemed like gibberish at first, the same as the rest, but something about it stuck in her head. One of these numbers had to be it. Gumb Cable Services wasn't even a good name for a real company, and Jame Gumb had been a man far too close to both of them.

Should she just try every number on the list? It couldn't take that long to go through them. Intermission was nearly over, but she wasn't here for the music anyways.

Erratic callings.

It clicked, and she dove for her cell phone. Erratic Callings. Clarice Starling.

"More anagrams, Doctor? Really?"

She punched the number in and dialed, remembering to look around and watch for him, just in case. He never appeared.

The phone rang four times, then went to voicemail.

"Hello, Clarice. You've made it very far indeed. Now I must ask you to enjoy the rest of the show. Please, call again afterwards. Hurry, intermission is probably about to end."

The beep punctuated the end of the message.

Clarice glared at the phone and redialed. The same message played. Her heels clicked as she practically stomped back to her seat, considering leaving him a nasty voicemail message. Was all this really necessary?

The second half of the concert wrenched her. Clarice got caught up in the music, the emotion. It was a wonderful release, after so many weeks on edge. She even forgot her cell phone. At the end, it took the house lights for her to realize it was over. The crowds were already moving out.

Clarice allowed herself one deep breath before powering up her phone and redialing.

Behind her, a phone rang. She whipped around. No one answered it. She tentatively rose and made her way towards the sound. A few rows back, a phone rested beneath a seat. It was next to a program, under which was another envelope.

* * *

_Clarice,_

_I have so enjoyed watching your progress this evening. You did better than even I expected. It seems our old cat-and-mouse hasn't run out, yet. I hope you had fun. However, I think I've kept you waiting long enough. Please make your way to the garden on the upper levels. I will meet you there. _

_Your friend,_

_H._

* * *

It took two elevators and a set of maintenance stairs, but Clarice finally found her way to the Kimmel Center's famed roof garden. Every city light was visible from here, but the shadows from the trees ran deep. Clarice crept across the terraces, counting the number of civil ordinances she was violating as she went. Her trigger finger twitched. She made it to the front and watched the streets go by.

She tried not to think of how close the Doctor had been without her realizing.

"Clarice."

Apparently it was a talent of his.

She whirled, moved to pull a gun that wasn't there, and sheepishly lowered her hands.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter."

He smiled at her from the shadows.

"You gave me quite the runaround tonight."

"I had to make sure you weren't being followed, Clarice. Last time that didn't work out so well."

"Well? I'm here. Care to tell me why?"

He came forward. Without being close enough to touch, Clarice felt pinned to the tiny wall separating her from the street. Then, he resumed his inhuman stillness. His voice came as gently as ever, despite its characteristic rasp.

"Clarice, I feel for the first time that there may now be some measure of trust between us. Am I wrong?"

"Not…entirely."

"I would like to see you again. May I call on you at your house? Say, a week from now?"

"You know, that would give ample time for me to set up a SWAT team ambush."

"I know. May I, Clarice?"

"…Yes."

"I look forward to it." With that, Dr. Lecter turned on his heel and vanished into the gardens. Clarice knew better than to try to follow. He was gone.

Instead, she leaned on the wall and stared out into the city.

* * *

Well, that's all, folks!

Want a picture of Clarice at the concert? I imagined this: blogimg/9/d/7/d/1775659_1303260769047_

See you next chapter.


	4. 4: Tyger

_Tyger, Tyger, burning bright_

_In the forests of the night_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry? _

_-William Blake_

* * *

It was hard, not having a friend to ask if she were going insane.

Clarice at least always had that in Ardelia and Crawford. But when Rowe looked at her askance that week, there was no one to turn to, to ask if her crazy was showing. Her week at work was all too slow. Even leaving early the hours dragged. Clarice couldn't read, watch TV, couldn't go out. Her jogs lasted twice as long as usual. She thought herself in circles, but always ended up at the same choices.

She could report it, try to apprehend him alone, or play along.

Dr. Lecter would be prepared for the first two options. Going back to the FBI left a bitter taste in her mouth, and a capture attempt would fail. He was too quick, too knowledgeable, prepared—and she quietly doubted her ability to act without hesitation. Better to feel him out and see where it led. Apparently, he didn't plan to kill her outright, so perhaps the time could even lead to valuable information.

But if she were playing along—what to do? He was coming over. To her house. Hannibal Lecter. Clarice tried not to think about how he knew where she lived, and then she tried to forget the whole situation. Perhaps with another person around, someone could tell her this was a stupid idea. Hell, Clarice knew that even without anyone reasonable around, but she couldn't find another solution.

It was to be her against Dr. Lecter.

* * *

In the end, she tucked a gun into her pants and called it good.

For hours she'd sorted through her wardrobe—not to find something pretty, but something flexible. Something she could move, run, fight in if she had to.

Panic was not an option now, not after waiting a week. The .45 in her waistband would have to do.

Music blaring, water boiling—it would have been a perfectly average Friday night, except that she poured out enough pasta for two. Sipping water, Clarice let her mind wander through work. No reporter had called in weeks. Nothing gruesome or tragic in a month or two. She had phoned Ardelia and caught up on the latest Washington gossip, although she hadn't much to trade.

Clarice was belting along with an Aerosmith number when the doorbell rang, and her carefully-constructed sense of normalcy collapsed.

She ran through the list in her head. Loaded Colt in her jeans—check. Back door wide open to her SUV, keys in the ignition—check. E-mail prepped to be automatically sent to Rowe's cell in an hour—check. Cell phone under her bra, with cash, and all speed-dials set to emergency contacts—check. Booby-traps upstairs and in the garage—check. Time to begin.

Clarice considered keeping the safety-chain lock engaged to greet her guest, then realized the silliness and just opened the door.

"Hello, Clarice."

She didn't mean to pull the gun, but pull it she did.

"You're frightened." He blinked but remained still.

"Last time we had dinner together, Dr. Lecter, you fried a man's brains and fed them to him. Yes, I'm a bit frightened. I'm also angry and confused."

"And yet I am still alive."

"I want to know why."

"He was going to hurt you. _Had _hurt you. He was also despicable and rude."

"Do you intend to eat every asshole I come across, Dr. Lecter?"

"Hannibal, please."

She groaned. "Give me three good reasons not to shoot you, doctor."

He didn't hesitate. "One: You want to know why I am here. You cannot accomplish this if I am deceased."

"Okay."

"Two: You know that if I intended you harm, it would be long over. I told you ten years ago I would not kill you, and that has not changed. You could not shoot a man that was no threat."

"You're no threat to me, doctor, but we can hardly say the same of society at large."

He pursed his brow infuriatingly to consider that. "I suppose I can't argue."

"Next?"

"Is this not enough?" The doctor offered a rose, which she stared at. "I surrender, Clarice."

With a quiet groan, Clarice threw her head back in defeat and let him in, holstering her weapon.

"Thank you."

"How'd you know I wouldn't get a SWAT team?"

Absently surveying the room, he replied, "You are, above all else, honorable, Clarice."

"And?

"….and?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"And I've been listening to FBI and local police chatter for days."

"Good thing I called Interpol, then."

The doctor laughed. "Oh, Clarice. Interpol could be surrounding the house right now and I would still escape unseen."

Merely shaking her head, she walked to the kitchen, consciously showing him her back. He followed innocently enough, but neither was willing to take their eyes off the other. Each danced around awaiting the trap.

Clarice silently dared him to comment as she filled a reindeer mug with water for her rose, and proceeded to strain the pasta, all while never breaking eye contact.

When he refused to give in, her eyes fixated on his left sleeve. Mixing the pasta, getting the salad out of the fridge, rooting around for wine glasses—she could not stop looking. The sleeve covered the wrist, but clearly, his hand was still attached.

When she looked up, she met a single raised eyebrow.

"This is too surreal. I'm in a coma. This is a morphine dream."

"I assure you that you are awake. I am a doctor, you know."

Clarice shocked herself by laughing. She was more shocked when he unbuttoned his sleeve and pulled it up, stepping closer to show her the grisly scar.

"No permanent damage," he said, wriggling all fingers as proof, "Doctor, remember."

"Let me get the wine out of the garage," Clarice choked before ducking aside.

He stayed in while she collected herself. No hyperventilation. No panicking. Clarice reminded herself of the cool pressure against her spine, obscured once more under the flowing blouse. She was going to survive this, and find out why the hell a serial killer had shown up for dinner. She returned with the wine.

Dr. Lecter leaned calmly against her counter. Two candles now burned at her only table, a breakfast nook in a bay window.

"It's not much," she shrugged towards a salad and alfredo—no meat to be found.

"It's more than enough, my dear."

Plates, silverware, napkins, glasses, and spices soon joined the candles on the table. Dr. Lecter watched as Clarice scurried and refused to look at him. When she finally had no choice, though, she leaned against the table and met his gaze.

"…you're in my kitchen."

He paused. "If this is too much, Clarice, I will gladly leave to give you space."

"I don't know yet."

He didn't move.

"Well, we may as well eat if we're just going to stand here looking dumb."

Hannibal Lecter gave a small smile, and waited until Clarice had sat down to seat himself.

He reached for the salad dressing as she did for the pepper. He put her forks in the right order, so she refused to put her napkin in her lap. Dinner was a silent war. He thankfully didn't comment, although the third time she reached for the wine, he gently stopped her with a hand on the bottle's stem.

After complimenting the meal, he cleared the table and filled the sink with water.

_Hannibal Lecter is here. Hannibal Lecter is here and I'm not trying to catch him. _

_Hannibal Lecter is here in my kitchen. _

_Washing dishes. _

Dr. Lecter's sleeves were rolled up, elbow-deep in dishwater, and Clarice definitely wasn't looking.

At least, not until he glanced up to catch her in the act.

"This is still too surreal. I'm not sure why you're here."

"You acted to protect me."

Clarice blinked. Had she? Perhaps not letting Mason Verger slaughter him had been protection—of a sort—but she had meant to do it only to keep him in custody.

His sleeve was already rolled up in the act of washing, and he brushed away bubbles to indicate the left wrist. "Not at the farm, Clarice. After. The FBI never found out about this rather conspicuous scar. I want to know why."

"Hardly protection. It was more like I neglected to actively hunt you down."

"The point still stands. Surely I am not one of your lambs."

"God, no. With you, they'd be caging a tiger."

"But surely, Clarice, given your…incorruptibility, you wish to punish my crimes. Prevent their being repeated."

"You've already proven we're all in greater danger with you locked up, Dr. Lecter."

The doctor's head tilted, studying. She wasn't surprised by the intensity—no, she remembered it well—but still his eyes imprisoned her.

"Why did you let me in?" he asked.

"Why did you come back?" Clarice wondered how many emotions he could read on her face at once. She felt too much to make sense of it herself, but took pride in her unwavering voice.

Dr. Lecter waited one exact dramatic moment before responding, "To answer the one haunting question I've already posed: why didn't you tell the FBI everything?"

"Why did you leave me alive?" she retorted.

"When you are so desperate for justice… why give me a chance to escape?" He stepped forward, wrist still shining with dishwater.

"Why your hand and not mine?" She barely felt herself back into the kitchen wall.

"And why, Clarice…are you trying so hard to avoid the question?" His arm arched over her. His heat crowded her. They touched nowhere, but Clarice felt pinned.

"…because I don't know the answer," she finally managed.

He relented and returned to the sink. Clarice poured herself two fingers of Kentucky, and on second thought, poured another for her guest. Would alcohol impair her fighting ability? Yes, but so would a nervous breakdown. She downed the tumbler and poured another before he turned from the emptying sink.

"Love the hair."

She blinked at him a few times before comprehending the compliment. "Thanks," she said with a genuine smile, before, "I got it done after someone used my ponytail against me to fight dirty."

"Short suits you. Shall we?" He offered a hand, which she took only with her other hand firmly wrapped around her bourbon. The doctor led them to the back, peeling away her drink and leaving both tumblers on the patio's rail. The doctor chuckled at her precautions.

"Ready to run, Clarice?" he asked, brow raised at the open back door leading to an open car door.

"Shit!" She whirled before scrambling for the phone in her bra, clicking a few buttons to cancel that e-mail. She'd made it by only a few minutes. Ignoring further laughs, she stomped to the car and slammed the door.

He blinked innocently over the rim of his tumbler as she glared.

Stalking back, she grumbled, "It's really amazing I haven't killed you yet, Dr. Lecter."

"Hannibal. Don't you think we've gotten to that point?"

"I have no idea what point we're at."

"…that makes two of us."

Clarice swirled her glass and continued sipping, leaning to stare at the wood line. The sun was half-set now, although as thick as the trees were around her house, one could hardly tell. She liked solitude. They stood in the dying light until it reached full gloaming.

"Without any games, manipulation, word-play, second-guessing, or _fun_, Doctor…what happens now?"

"Whatever you'd like."

"I'd like this to make sense, but apparently in my life that's not an option."

A hand on her cheek shocked her out of reverie, and her eyes flicked to the doctor.

"You've been half snarls tonight. You're still healing from your fallout with the FBI. From John's death, and Paul's, although why you still wish him alive and unhurt, I doubt I'll ever understand. I'm not asking you to murder or expatriate or make blindingly passionate love. We will be still until things make sense, whatever that sense looks like."

Clarice's eyes closed and she leaned in to his touch.

"I'd like to return the favor of cooking dinner, if that's all right with you. Vegan, I promise."

She nodded, still silent.

"In a week, then. Goodnight, Clarice."

"Goodnight, Doctor."

His mouth opened to correct her again, but then he just shook his head and smiled. His hand dropped and he turned, heading straight for the woods.

* * *

A body in the dark went completely still. The doctor passed all too close for comfort, but didn't look up—at least, not enough to see the hiding spot. Tempting though it was to follow him, the figure in the dark just chuckled. Something better was right here, on the camera screen.

A photo of Clarice Starling and the monster.


	5. 5: The World at Large

"The World at Large"

I like songs about drifters - books about the same.  
They both seem to make me feel a little less insane.  
Walked on off to another spot.  
I still haven't gotten anywhere that I want.  
Did I want love? Did I need to know?  
Why does it always feel like I'm caught in an undertow?

Modest Mouse

* * *

Squinting in the dark failed, and Clarice fumbled hopelessly for the light switch. Maybe the dark was better. Whoever was in the house making noises wouldn't see her coming. Flicking the safety off her gun, she crept downstairs.

The kitchen light flickered, and she could hear rustling and the tell-tale squeak of the board below the stove. Clarice peered in, trying to remain steady between slow exhales. Sweat trickled at her hairline.

She nearly dropped her gun when it found its target.

"Doctor?"

Dr. Lecter spun. "Oh, hello Clarice. I'm glad you could join us."

"Us? Doctor, whose blood is on your mouth?"

"Hmm?" he wiped a hand along his cheek, licking it clean with a smile.

"Who else is here?!" She stepped farther into the kitchen to scan and search.

"Just an old friend," he replied as her eyes landed on the table.

"Oh God."

"Hi, Clarice."

She scrambled but the Doctor got to her first, trapping her against his body. "Run!" she yelled, "You've got to get out of here, Paul! Do you hear me? Get up!"

"But we haven't eaten dinner yet…"

"He's quite right, Clarice," Dr. Lecter purred in her ear. Struggling anew, she managed to kick him in the shin and break free, only to have her gun arm wrenched behind her. The Colt dropped, but she twisted away, trying to reach Agent Krendler. She began to haul him up when a vise on her arm ripped her away.

In seconds she crashed to her kitchen floor, dragging Lecter on top of her.

"Shhh," he cooed, "Look at me, not him."

She did, and he kissed her, soft as velvet. Spice and wine underlay the taste of blood. Initially she resisted, but an instinctive thought sprang forth—that she had been in this situation before, and fought, and regret had chased her since. She couldn't waste a second chance.

Dr. Lecter made a savage noise when Clarice responded, slanting to taste his mouth. She arched into him and he touched her—how he touched her, running his hands down her, teasing like the bastard he was—and she used her newly freed hands to pull at his scalp.

A squelching thud broke the moment. Clarice twisted to find the gory mess of Paul Krendler's skull. It had peeled off while he lay floundering.

"Why?" he whispered as his eyes began to bleed.

Clarice screamed.

* * *

She awoke with a book on her chest and her neck throbbing. Couch, window shades, all was as she left it. Knowing it had been a dream, however, could not slow her clearing the entire house. Starting with the kitchen.

Nothing. Empty. Not a thing moved nor a smell changed. That done, she took a slow breath. No shock that she dreamed the same debate her waking mind was stuck in.

She could avoid examining herself when Hannibal Lecter wasn't asking pointed questions. He had committed countless evil acts and now strolled the world's best art museums freely. Where was the justice in that? The safety for future victims? His recapture had absorbed her life—could all that change just because the FBI revealed itself to her?

Clarice sagged into a kitchen chair and began dismantling her gun.

What could she do to capture him? Alone, it would be impossible. If she called it in, it would be out of her hands. Ex-coworkers had implied in low voices what would happen to Dr. Lecter should he resurface. No plan involved him living through jail. Not only that, but they would rifle through _her _life. The FBI, then the Tattler, would insist on impeaching her character even after her willing defection. Especially after the defection.

Satisfied with the pieces of her firearm, Clarice leaned the chair back to open the junk drawer beside her sink. By memory she found a few bottles, some newspaper, a brush, and some other knick knacks. Double-checking that everything was unloaded, she set up to clean her barrel.

So, she should make sure he got into custody, but publicly. Safely. Make sure he wasn't put back with a doctor like Chilton. Keep him safe and hope the system worked the way it should. Could she keep his torture at bay alone?

"Fuck!" Solvent burned her eye. The brush coming out of the gun almost always splattered—that's why the FBI drilled safety goggles into agents' heads. One eye closed and weeping, Clarice continued, perhaps more roughly than before.

Wouldn't prison_ be_ torture? She didn't know how he'd survived eight years in Baltimore, and this time he'd lose all privileges. Living would be a slow death. His brilliant mind and wit would fade, and without FBI clearance, she'd never see him again.

Clarice slammed her work down to pace the kitchen.

Wasn't that the point? What he had done to Krendler, to untold others, was horrific. Killing as a public service was vigilantism as bad as Verger's. He was _supposed _to waste away, and she was supposed to _want_ him to.

That was it, then. She reassembled her weapon (really she should add more lube, but she maintained it so often it wasn't necessary) and marched to the living room.

Pulling her cell from its charger, she flipped through the address book to find the number in Washington. Before she could press call, though, the phone rang.

In minutes she flew out the door.

* * *

She met Peter Rowe at the office, and in his car they sped south. One of Rowe's contacts in Maryland had called, requesting immediate back-up. They would apparently arrive soon after the sheriff; they'd been the second call, and the crime happened in the sticks.

Their only notes were scribbled on a greeting card by a half-asleep Rowe. Clarice read and reread them. Two dead bodies at a farm house: the mother and a foster daughter. Three other foster children were missing. With priorities spread between investigating the deaths and finding the missing children, the CPS agent had called in every available ally. The end of the card read, "Happy Birthday Peety, Love, Mama."

With Rowe's other two investigators in Pittsburgh, it was only Clarice and Rowe who raced down the highway in silence.

"Biological parents?" she asked.

"Don't know yet. Hemmings will have their files."

"And the location?"

"It's barely over the border. There's an atlas in the back."

Clarice fished it out and flipped to Maryland, trying to find a town.

"Not much there."

"What are you thinking?"

"We hardly know the situation. Perhaps a biological parent, perhaps totally unrelated. No idea really until we see it. Four foster kids?"

"Hemmings said she was a widow. The house was too big when her husband died. Hemmings apparently didn't worry about that house like she does the ones more south. Everything seemed safe."

"Usually does."

With nothing to work on and adrenaline pumping, Clarice started tapping. She was most of the way through every Queen song she knew when Rowe's phone rang. Clarice answered.

"Agent Hemmings. I'm putting you on speaker—Sheriff's here. We can get some basics out of the way."

"We're listening."

Rowe stared hard at the road while Clarice flipped out a notebook and started writing.

* * *

Dawn was barely starting to unfold as they pulled up the driveway. A trio awaited them on the porch.

"Since you said you were close, I asked everyone to wait." As they unfolded from the car, Clarice recognized the woman's voice as Hemmings from the phone.

"Good, a fresh scene then," Rowe said.

"Not as fresh as it was ten minutes ago," the sheriff shot back.

"Rowe, this is Sheriff Clark and Deputy Máquez. This is Peter Rowe, a PI who specializes in Amber Alerts. He's helped me before. And…?"

"Clarice Starling. I'm a PI from Rowe & Co."

"Well, if we want to get started? My boss should be arriving eventually, but she's dealing with a situation in Havre de Grace." They filed in, Hemmings leading the way.

"Everything's as you found it?" Máquez asked as they walked.

"Yep. I didn't touch anything but the doorknob and the living room light switch, before I… found them."

"Are you allowed to just walk in like that?"

"Mrs. Stallings invited me to. She left her door unlocked."

Conversation ended when they got to the kitchen.

The bodies took up most of the floor space. Both had visible lacerations. Drawers were opened, stools knocked over. Every surface had blood spatter, the ghost of an intense struggle. Clarice started snapping photos. Looking at Máquez, she was reminded of her own first autopsy. He gaped, then gagged, one hand on the wall to support him.

"Knives missing from the block," Rowe noted.

"Nothing broken as I can see yet," Sheriff replied, "Better chance the perp was let in."

"Or just walked through the door, like us."

Clarice had seen a lot of crimes scenes. She rarely got sick anymore, could funnel the storm of rage into focus. On the refrigerator door was a detail that swelled to test that control: a tiny handprint, stark, in blood. A child's hand.

The sheriff assessed his deputy and suggested he start combing the rest of the house. Máquez scurried off the scene, Clarice close behind.

The back door was through the kitchen, so they would have to go around the house to check it without disturbing the crime scene. Instead, they started with the bedrooms. The master was pristine, but the children's were almost as disarrayed as the kitchen. There were two, one for the boys and one for girls. Only Máquez was allowed to touch things—legal loophole—but Clarice directed him if she wanted something opened or turned. The search didn't illuminate much outside the normal retinue of children's stuff: toys, clothes, balls of paper shoved in crannies. Both windows were locked from the inside.

Rowe grilled Hemmings while Sheriff Clark collected evidence. Clarice and Máquez turned the house over but found little. Things were a bit run-down and every door was unlocked, but otherwise there wasn't much extraordinary. Their leads would come from the kitchen.

They returned to Rowe and Clark in a heated discussion.

Sheriff Clark grunted, "I don't want them dicking with evidence. We can't afford for this to get thrown."

"Sir," Clarice replied as she strode in, "We have a window to find these children. Two days. We have recorders, cameras, everything else you need to admit our findings to court. What we don't have is time for arguing. Hemmings, a list of contacts of the deceased?"

Bristling, the sheriff backed down.

The county coroner arrived shortly after true sunrise. Hemmings issued her third statement of the day. A list of people to be interviewed was split up. Someone brought coffee. The legwork began.

* * *

Even with all hands on deck, the legwork overwhelmed. Interviews branched out to previous foster homes, biological parents, school contacts. There were no obvious grudges to chase, no recent murders with the same MO. After day one, of course, the hardest job was corralling the media.

There was only one more biological relative to visit on Hemmings' list, the mother of one of the missing boys. CPS had apparently been drilling her for days with nothing. She had gotten out of prison only two weeks ago, making her a prime suspect.

The causes of death were knives of two different sizes. The girl's wound was in her gut, the mother's, behind a shoulder blade. They matched the knives missing from the kitchen block. Maybe more valuably, there were three blood types on the scene; it was very likely one held the DNA of the killer. That information from the coroner was probably the last useful thing they'd heard—certainly the interviews had produced nothing.

_And what do the knives tell you, Clarice? _

_The killer didn't come in with a weapon. He may have already known they were in the house, but it's more likely he didn't plan on fighting. This is too messy for a plan. _

_Do you know, you've already seen everything you need? I would have thought, with your history, you would recognize more about transient children._

_Why don't you tell me the answers then, Doctor? _

_Where would the fun in that be? Besides, I'm just a voice in your head, my dear. _

Clarice leaned her head on the steering wheel and cursed. Rowe returned with gas station coffee, silently passing it over. The typical 48-hour deadline had long passed by now, and everyone's adrenaline was flat-lining into irritation.

Ms. Emmy Pierce, mother of AJ Pierce, was living in Baltimore having just gotten off on probation for grand theft. Miss, not Mrs. Her son was her only family.

_Thank god we're not the ones that have to tell her,_ Clarice thought as they pulled into the complex.

Clarice stepped over some shingles to knock, and a pretty young thing in a tracksuit answered the door. Her hair was chopped short, her eyes sunken.

"You the PIs?"

"Yes ma'am."

She let them in, flicking a custom lighter for a smoke.

"Do you mind if we record this conversation?"

"Go ahead. Have a seat." The couch sagged beneath afghans of every color. Clarice and Rowe sank in while their host paced.

"I haven't slept since they told me," she said, "I was s'posed to get a visit soon."

"We're trying to find out more about the children, Ms. Pierce. Anything you know might help."

"Hell, I haven't seen A.J. in two years. We just wrote letters."

"Do you know anyone who might take your son? Any relatives, the father maybe?"

"His dad's long gone. I don't have enemies like that. I don't know about those other kids, though. I just don't know. They tell you your kid's gonna be safe."

"What have you been doing since you got out?"

"Looking for work. Renting this place. I haven't had time for much else, and now…" she shook out her head, snubbing her cigarette. After two more rounds of pacing she lit it again.

"You know we have to ask where you were four nights ago."

"Yeah, I thought so. I went grocery shopping then stayed in. I got the receipt here."

"You were expecting this?"

"CPS already drilled me. I am the likely suspect, aren't I? Mama finally gets out, steals her boy back?" Ms. Pierce's laugh sounded more like choking through her tears. "It even makes sense to me, but I wouldn't fuck this up now. I hurt him too much the first time. You're welcome to check the closets, I ain't got nowhere else to hide him. I can tell you one thing, though."

"And what's that?"

"If anyone can survive this, my A.J. can. What we've already been through…he's a survivor. Kept me going when I thought I couldn't. You know, he stopped his dad beating me once?"

"Yeah?"

"Jumped right on his back and bit him. Marty left the next week. I did everything I could for an early probation to see my son again."

"We're going to do everything we can to make that happen, Ms. Pierce," Clarice said, and for a moment Mr. Pierce stopped pacing and just looked at her.

"The only reason I'm not up there right now is if I find that sonofabitch I'll go back to prison." She collapsed into a chair, and for a while the room was quiet except for her sobs.

"Tell me about him," Clarice finally asked when Ms. Pierce had calmed down and was now awkwardly avoiding their eyes.

"Every week he had a new favorite candy. I'd order him packages of them once a month. He missed his old school but he was still doing well. He loved his foster siblings."

"And the…caretaker?"

"I didn't hear much about her. She was pretty quiet, apparently. Let them watch TV, though. He liked that. In our last letter he told me he wanted to be James Bond. He's thirteen now. He tells me he's grown five inches."

The same questions were asked a few times, but the time-stamp on the signed receipt made her alibi solid, and there was only so much Ms. Pierce could tell them. On their way out, Ms. Pierce threw her arms around Clarice.

"You bring my boy home, Starling. He's the only one who matters in the world."

Clarice nodded, hands twitching at her sides, and they left.

Back in the car, Rowe took a long breath. Clarice stared out the side mirror to avoid his tears, but he said, "No, it's okay. Once these cases stop breaking your heart, they've beaten you. Then you're the broken one." One more long breath, and he pulled out.

Clarice didn't cry while working. It didn't do anyone any good. Worse, men pointed to it as evidence that women couldn't do the job. So, she bottled the pressure. She preferred to destroy things and fight and drink and sleep and cry after it was all over. Nonetheless, her throat tightened as they drove northward. She glared down the landscape and dared it to make her cry.

* * *

Two more days and everyone was ragged. A review at the sheriff's office quickly degraded into an argument. The county had never dealt with something of this scale. Men were understandably breaking down, especially as time went on. Most of the evidence analysis couldn't be in before next week. Witnesses were exhausted. Stagnation led to rage. Everyone split off—Rowe to talk to Hemmings, Clark to make a call from his office, other cops to continue the search and rescue. Clarice sighed, and stretched.

"You feel useless, too?" Máquez asked from behind her.

"Getting there. Would you mind if I tuned in to the scanner for a while?"

"Yeah, sure. I've got one on my iPhone, actually," he said with a sheepish laugh.

"Thanks."

"Ask you something, Ms. Starling?"

"Shoot."

"How do you deal with this?"

"…Just at the moment, I focus on something else. It helps get me unstuck. Mostly, remember the big picture and don't forget to breathe. There's no science to dealing with this. No one's built for it, but you find ways."

Máquez nodded, sitting across from her and fiddling with his phone. Clarice leaned on her hand and stared at the county map as she listened to all of the traffic violations and petty thefts of Cecil County, MD. It was no wonder they were getting nowhere, when all the local police had ever dealt with seemed to be the occasional missing inventory from a grocery store.

Clarice and Máquez listened in silence, staring at the map as if it held the answers.

* * *

No one could sleep that night. Clarice finally had enough around dawn, and banged on the motel door beside her own until Rowe answered in a pair of shorts.

"I need to see the scene again. Can I have the car keys?"

"If you bring breakfast back with you."

Rowe shuffled back into the dark while Clarice scrambled away. She had everything, she was reasonably clean, and the media wasn't at her door yet. She could do this.

She pulled out of the motel and didn't even stop for gas station coffee.

"Okay, we have four kids in the system. Ages 16, 13, and 8, with the ten-year-old deceased. A foster-mother widow with no known enemies and a lot of friends. Someone comes in, doesn't steal anything, fights with and kills two people." Clarice sped without the music on, mumbling off memorized notes, trying to find some thread they hadn't pulled.

_What is its nature?_

"Not cold. This was all crime-of-passion. Nothing missing to indicate a trophy. We just don't know who had a grudge like that…but what happened to the other kids? If they'd escaped, someone would know by now. They'd show up. This wasn't cold. No planned ransom or… there must be someone whose story doesn't check out, we just need to follow up…"

Clarice nodded at the man guarding the scene, still keeping reporters out. Yawning, he waved her by.

There had to be something. Clarice locked the car and ducked through the yellow tape.

A fresh crime scene was never as haunting as an old one left unsolved. The bloodstains, evidence markers, chalk lines all jeered as she passed—"Will you save these ones? Tick tick tick."

She started with the bedrooms. The mother—Mrs. Newton—her bedroom was still perfect, if a little roughened from repeated combings. Clarice tripped on an electrical cord in the hall—damn, she even knew it had been there—and went into the girls' room. Nothing again. A few drawings posted on the walls, laundry overflowing its basket. She could find no difference between the missing girl's side of the room and the victim's.

"Esther." The girl's name had been Esther, not "the victim." Rowe was right, you had to fight to stay human in this job, and that meant remembering every last lamb. Every reason to keep fighting.

On to the boys' room.

One of the boys had shoes of every conceivable color. The other had a black and white printout of Sean Connery in _From Russia With Love _taped above his bed.

"You must be A.J."

Clarice stood in the center of the room and slowly turned around—_okay, what haven't I combed over yet?_ She dropped to the floor to look under the beds—more shoes. The closet (left partially open so she could look in, thanks to Máquez)? Balls, trash, clothes.

"Come on boys, give me something."

And it was then, her hand leaning the door just slightly farther, that the closet collapsed. A carefully-arranged tower of junk nearly took her down. Schoolbooks, newspapers, letters, a tennis racket, a bin of socks, and what appeared to be—what was definitely a dime bag—spilled across the floor.

_Does a teenage boy willingly leave his weed behind? _

Clarice leaned carefully to look at the new heap of evidence. The science texts looked pretty advanced—apparently A.J. was in honors courses. His bookbag had to weigh a ton.

As she gingerly stepped away from the mess, she looked around. No bookbag to judge. None for the older boy, either—Miles.

_Don't panic now. Lots of teenagers leave their homework at school, or in the car._ More than ninety-nine percent of details about victims were red herrings that could drive an investigator mad.

Taped above a desk was a single polaroid of a small boy, holding his mother's hand on one side and a stuffed green rabbit on the other. Clarice recognized Ms. Pierce, several years and another foot of hair younger. The boy was A.J. then, at eleven.

She kept glancing around the room, finally sighing in defeat. The kitchen was next then-the scene she least relished returning to. Spinning to leave, Clarice's eye caught the polaroid again. _Where's the rabbit?_

Not the bed. Not the floor. It hadn't fallen out of the closet. Clarice used a handkerchief to nudge the drawers of the desk open without touching handles—nothing.

_Where is it? _

_What kind of 13-year-old loses his last memento from his mom? _

…_None. None! _

Everything crystallized. Tiny details—those tiny almost-useless details they agonized over—suddenly all shone out in the right order. Clarice knew. Her rational side screamed, _You have no evidence! Go back and confirm this, somehow! At least call back-up? Stop running off! Don't open that…door…_

Clarice didn't know what she was looking for, but knew she'd recognize it. The farm had a lot of land, given only a cursory glance by the search team. _Where would I hide?_ _If I were carrying a lamb again…_

The road wouldn't be safe enough. Too open. These kids had lived in bad situations—they would need to know their surroundings. Every escape route.

_That way._

Clarice ran to the trees amassed at the bottom of the hill. Down here the neat lawn gave way to thick underbrush. Trunks were widely spaced but still managed to filter out the sun. Childhood wisdom jumped back into her mind—_keep going down, you'll find the creek. _Finding it didn't take long. The creek specifically was just a hunch, but for kids with nothing, a creek was a play-castle.

On the edge of the stream, Clarice looked back and forth. No signs yet. Downstream she could make something out, though. She negotiated the muck towards the white object until she could see it was a wooden landing, maybe a small dock. There was a hook on the end that might be able to moor a kayak. Preteen Clarice would have loved it. A hidden haven.

Then the haven shattered. Clarice did indeed know "it" when she saw it, worn by time though it was.

Blood.


	6. 6: A Hundred Indecisions

**CHAPTER SIX: A Hundred Indecisions**

Author's note: It occurred to me that I've been painting the US Foster Care system in a pretty bad light. This is not reflective of the entire system—I have known some truly excellent foster parents. My personal experience leans much more towards the abusers, though, so my personal bias is probably showing. Also, I write a lot about them because most PI cases in the US involving children work with foster care or arguing parents. My apologies.

Also, trigger warning—some mentions of abuse in this chapter.

End of PSA.

* * *

_Streets that follow like a tedious argument  
Of insidious intent  
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .  
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"  
Let us go and make our visit._

_There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create,  
And time for all the works and days of hands  
That lift and drop a question on your plate;  
Time for you and time for me,  
And time yet for a hundred indecisions  
And for a hundred visions and revisions  
Before the taking of a toast and tea._

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

* * *

Sprinting, Clarice dialed Rowe. No service. She should get a search team—alone, too easy to miss something—but it could wait until she ran near a cell tower. She would not give up this trail.

The creek wound as it pleased, tangles of rock and weed threatening to trip her. At least she wore sneakers, not government-payroll pumps. No obvious trail led away, not even a well-worn indentation that might indicate a child's hiding spot. If indeed they had a boat, the children could be long gone by now, but she had to hope otherwise. Somewhere, there would be a sign.

_Where would I have gone, with the lamb? Too afraid to leave the roads I knew…_

The whoosh of cars let Clarice know that she was still within civilization, but she hadn't studied any maps long enough to have a bearing on where she was in town. If they had left town, her entire theory was for naught—

_There will be something. _

Her stomach dropped and the world turned and she couldn't reach her gun and the crack reminded her of too many bad scares. Clarice twisted into a crouching roll before even registering that she'd slipped. Clay-dirt caked her legs and lord-knew-what soaked her hair, but otherwise, nothing. No time to dwell—what was the sound she'd heard?

Something hollow. Not a forest-sound.

Her fall revealed a section of brown tarp beneath a mess of leaves. That's how she'd slipped—folded tarp rubbing against itself.

Though it was beneath a bush and smothered with twigs, Clarice now made out the outline. Her canoe.

How she managed to lift the tarp slowly, she wasn't sure. Perhaps FBI training rooted too deep, telling her to remember evidence above adrenaline. Two oars placed under the single seat. On that seat—blood.

With unpracticed eyes, Clarice could see no sign of injured children making a trail through the woods, but still she dropped the tarp and trekked uphill.

Past a ridge of gnarled roots and loose earth, a park sprang to view. Its fields were mowed and its playsets shined. Clarice blinked, adjusting from scraggly shadows to sudden light. No cars—neither a soul nor suspicious crumb to be seen. If ever they'd gotten in a car, the search was cold.

Clarice suspected otherwise, though.

_I said you had all you needed. _

"Shut up, Doctor."

Clarice flirted with the park's wood line until she came to the parking lot. She spotted her destination, and tiptoed through the normal park litter of cigarette butts and plastic lids until she crossed the lot entirely, and stopped. It was just about like any public park's toilet: cobwebbed inside, stained, and apparently abandoned. There was only one room with one stall. Nothing. Empty. For appearance's sake, Clarice flushed the toilet.

This shanty was the only building in the park. Ignoring the itch to pull her gun, Clarice circled it, sneakers soaking in the dew. She didn't breathe, and began automatically to count heartbeats as though lining up a shot. Still no obvious signs. She began skirting the tree-line again. If she remembered properly, they were all city kids, but if they'd learned to canoe they could learn to camp.

Clarice chanted names, birthplaces, grades—anything she could remember about this missing trio—but nothing made an answer appear.

If a bird call hadn't startled her, Clarice might not have turned at the right moment. Her itching fingers had her jumpy, and she whirled on the outhouse again. On this side, facing the woods, hid another door. It couldn't be bigger than a storage closet. Approaching, Clarice read an "Employees Only" sign hanging tilted over the broken lock. Her stomach lurched while she did one of those awkward speed-walks back uphill.

No sound came from inside. Just her pounding heart and the birds.

_Well, if I'm wrong, no one will know I look foolish,_ Clarice reasoned before crouching against the wall.

"Hello? My name is Clarice Starling."

"I've been looking into the death of your sister. I just want to make sure you're okay."

The door creaked, then jerked back—angry whispers. Clarice did not move. It opened again.

A boy leaned out, greased hair shining, and watched her with only one eye.

"A.J., right?"

A small nod.

"I talked to your mom a few days ago. She's worried. Was hoping to see you again soon."

Two blinks.

"I'm not here to get any of you in trouble. I don't think you've done anything wrong."

"Let her in, A.J."

"No!"

A.J. ignored the two voices behind him, simply staring at Clarice.

"When I grew up, they had orphanages. I lived in one til I was seventeen. It's not easy, is it?"

A.J. let go of the door and it whined open. His arm was bandaged with what looked like a T-shirt.

"Please don't take him," A.J. said.

"Who?"

"Jay, stop talking."

"Rob, I presume?" Clarice called to the shadows.

The sullen silence that greeted her could have only been produced by a 16-year-old.

"I just want to find out what happened and discuss our options. I'm not with the police."

From the shadows came Rob, then Mariah, the 8-year-old. They all held each other in the door frame—Mariah and A.J. by the hand, and Rob clasping their shoulders. Though a variety of ages and colors, the three had matching sunken eyes and torn clothes.

"What happens now?"

"Depends what you tell me."

* * *

The story came about slowly, under tears and pauses, gently prompted by Clarice. It was much as she'd guessed.

A.J. hid his green bunny among other things in his backpack—pop tarts, deodorant, pencils. The other two had similar supplies. For three runaways working fast, it had to do.

Mrs. Stallings had been cooking. No one was sure what had happened between her and Esther, but Rob ran in at the yelling. Apparently the two fought often. Ester had shoved—Mrs. Stallings had reacted with the knife in her hand—A.J. was already there. He tried to get the knife, but she'd shoved him down—adrenaline-madness in her eyes—Rob protected his foster brother. Ended the problem.

Mariah lifted her shirt to show off the scars. Old fashioned whipping, new tool—electrical cord. Clarice had seen it before.

"She didn't like girls," was the only explanation offered.

"Sounds like clear-cut self-defense," Clarice said at the end.

Rob shook his head. "I got a rap. Almost 18. You think they let off a latino who killed an old white woman?"

Clarice's heart wrung. Once upon a time, she might have said yes.

"You can't survive off stolen food forever. Living on the lam isn't easy."

_At least if you aren't a genius multi-millionaire. _

"I'll get by."

"And them?" she nodded at the smaller kids he guarded.

Silence.

Her mind whirred. This wasn't Rob's fault. It was the system's fault for failing to protect them. He'd defended those he obviously considered family—a rare enough thing in foster care, where neglect often forced children to fight against each other to survive. He'd go to jail with an adult felony, a permanent record.

It wasn't fucking fair.

She beckoned A.J.

When he came forward, she took his arm and unwrapped it. Yellow infection cut an oozing strip from elbow to wrist. From her nigh-forgotten purse, Clarice pulled a tube of disinfectant.

_I wonder if every woman's purse includes a survival kit? _

"How tall are you?" she asked while beginning to smear the wound.

"Four-eleven."

Clarice's eyes narrowed.

"Okay, four-nine."

"That'll do."

Clarice took a deep breath.

_Time to pick justice over the rules. _

"Here's what we're going to do."

* * *

Rowe chattered, ebullient all the ride home. He lost his normal reserve, which was good—Clarice didn't have to talk much, and could write it off as sleeplessness. That wasn't even a complete lie. He even forgave her failure at breakfast delivery, since they got drive-through. Clarice nodded at all the right pauses, and stared out the window.

"I just had no idea. I was only planning on spending a few more days on-site anyways—we all knew this case was cold. I'm glad I brought you. That runaway stuff? That was good. I hadn't even considered—Sheriff sure as hell hadn't—you done good."

Clarice began to suspect that Peter Rowe was one of those people who waned to mania at the end of their adrenaline.

Clarice's adrenaline was nowhere near crashing.

A.J. had confessed to the crime nearly as soon as the officials appeared on the scene. They were taken to the hospital and given food. Things looked good for each of them. Hemmings said Rob might be considered for emancipation and was already looking at things for Mariah—A.J. desperately wanted to take her home, and everyone was so happy to see them alive, even that seemed a possibility.

"What you're saying," A.J. had asked her, while all four sat in the dew and waited to hear sirens, "What you mean is that if I confess they won't send me to jail?"

"I highly doubt it. You're younger, injured, and you don't have a record. Your case is stronger for self-defense, and you reasonably could have made the wounds. All that only if you're willing to risk yourself, which isn't up to me or Rob. It's up to you."

"I want to do it. But can't they test my DNA or something?"

"Honey, once someone says 'I did it,' they stop looking. As long as you all tell the same details, it should be okay."

"Why you helping us?"

She shrugged. "Right thing to do. If you're willing, I'll make the call."

Time would tell whether it had been the right call.

In the meantime, trees sped past and Clarice mused over the spirit of the law.

* * *

Clarice began stripping as she left her SUV and stopped when she collapsed naked on her couch. A minute of indulgence—then time to be an adult again. She couldn't sleep without a run, even on a week's worth of insomnia. Groaning, she rose.

Leaving her suitcase open on the bed, Clarice donned a tracksuit and began a round of laundry. Her modified shoulder holster had a space for a water bottle, which she filled. The house seemed normal-quiet, and she thought about taking a long bath while catching up on novels she never finished.

Perhaps if she didn't pass out too quickly after her run. Maybe she'd even pull out the wine and candles, go for an all-out celebration.

Clarice remembered at the same moment three knocks rang downstairs. A few curse words escaped as she bounded across her house and threw the door open. Panting in a tracksuit, Clarice stared at Dr. Hannibal Lecter, MD, who stared back like the void. There were paper bags of groceries at his feet.

His surprised blink lasted a moment longer than usual, before he broke down in laughter.

"Clarice, you always do manage to surprise me. No one's forgotten a date with me in, oh, many years."

"I just got off a case. I didn't even know what day it was. I'm sorry."

Dr. Lecter reigned in his chuckling, but the pleasure in his eyes lingered.

"Please, come in. Can I carry something?"

"Thank you, I've got it."

It was all Clarice could do not to run to the kitchen and make sure everything was clean. Dr. Lecter watched her from behind, something between amusement and satisfaction on his face. This was the first time she had willingly shown him her back.

After a once-over of the kitchen, Clarice asked, "Would you mind if I ran upstairs and showered?"

"Leaving me alone to scrutinize your house? Perhaps even to join you?"

"You wouldn't without an invitation, and I have a week of grime to wash off. Feel free to scrutinize. I'm not sure you can help yourself…Hannibal."

"…Perhaps the bright side is you have not had time to build up your unnecessary fear of me."

"I haven't got the spare brainpower at the moment. But make yourself at home, I'll be back in fifteen."

Dr. Lecter nodded with an odd little bow and Clarice raced upstairs again, a tad hysterical from the sheer absurdity of this situation. Only a few minutes went to cleaning—a few more to prepping—and the rest to pulling herself together. Downstairs, Dr. Lecter wore an actual vest, so Clarice at the very least upgraded to a dress (no shoes, though), and trudged downstairs.

A glass of white awaited her on the table. She collapsed there, rubbing her temples and sipping. The Doctor was unraveling those bags of groceries—all items encased in the original plastic, Clarice noted with a hidden thread of relief.

_Really? I've been reconciling myself to breaking the law and…this? _

Clarice laughed, then choked. _The hell is wrong with me?_ _Maybe my body's finally run out of adrenaline. Yep, I think that's it._

"Did you lose one, my dear?"

Clarice jerked up to see him staring at her, the knife in his hand slicing the wrapping from a spice tin.

"Not this time."

"Then what are you trying so hard to forget?"

Clarice merely looked out the window. She heard him set things down—likely so he wouldn't startle her, because she knew he could be silent if he chose. In her periphery she sensed him sit, leaning on his elbows, hands at his mouth. Meeting his eyes, she thought, _He must have been an excellent psychiatrist._

Her fingers strummed, mouth opened, then closed again, then frowned. What answer to give? She couldn't lie, but she wasn't even sure of the truth.

"I meant to call you in," she blurted, "The phone was in my hand."

"And what happened?"

"I didn't."

Dr. Lecter outwaited her inadequate answer, the shift in his shoulders reminiscent of a cat.

"The case happened. We've been working nonstop in Maryland for a week. I didn't even have time to think about it, and now you're here. And I don't know if I want to anymore. Call in. I…this is…complicated."

"It wouldn't be, if you faced whatever it is that you want. But you know I will never impede your free will, Clarice. Neither will I allow my freedom to be impeded."

Her eyes closed. She remembered all too well. Her shapeless nightmares still peeled off their faces to reveal the Doctor underneath. Would old-Clarice have called it in, killed him, tried to 'save' him in rehab? The bright-eyed Clarice, just accepted into the Academy? For surely everything began to change the first time she tread the Dungeon hallway. Did she know how to measure herself without him anymore?

Sometimes, in the nightmares—she peeled off the faces and saw herself.

And there was only one confidant left to ask how deep she'd gone.

"I broke some laws today."

"Why, special agent, I didn't know you had it in you. Is Daddy proud?"

Clarice shoved herself up, hands on the table and intending a tantrum. Before her grand exit, though, Dr. Lecter covered those hands with his own.

"Tell me."

"I wanted to save an innocent from going to jail. So I taught three kids how to lie to the police and get away with it. I lied, too. Two people murdered. I only suspected the truth, no hard evidence, but I lied anyway."

He released her—at least, from his hands. Something in his eyes was greedy whenever they played their game of questions, and she never could back down from it.

"Do you feel guilt for that? For upholding your true ideals, outside the flawed logic of the so-called justice system?"

"No. But that's unsettling, too."

"Normal, when realizing something hidden within oneself. You will process and integrate the knowledge, as you do with all grief."

Clarice sighed as she sat again.

"Protestant morals and Catholic guilt. It's a wonder you get anything done, ex-Special Agent Clarice Starling, between all the moral indecisions."

"Don't forget it killed my sense of fun," she retorted as he rose and returned to the counter.

"Oh, that's all right. You're repairing it, now, eating dinner with a suave, dashing—"

"Mass-murdering, deadly genius with a taste for blood?"

"You think me a genius? Clarice, I'm flattered," he said over his shoulder.

She moved to peek over him.

"I'm afraid I couldn't bear without meat. I hope salmon is recognizable enough," he said.

"More than. Also, I'm ravenous."

"All good things…"

"Really, pass-out hungry. I've been eating out of gas stations six days now, it won't ruin my appetite." Clarice opened the fridge, saddened by the reminder that food never appeared unless she bought it.

A hand nudged her away. Another closed the refrigerator.

"In that case, it would be a sin to allow you anything but the best," he murmured. A grape appeared in his hand, apparently from the bags on the counter. Clarice accepted it—into her own hand—and definitely did not think about Hannibal Lecter and refrigerators.

He leaned away as suddenly as he'd appeared, and returned to slicing as though nothing had happened. Of course Clarice panted while he was unaffected. His hands transfixed her—_his eyes and his hands, what is my problem_?—and she watched him wield the knife in his right. His left hand, she saw now, couldn't bend much at the wrist. His fingers didn't work in perfect unison. He must hide it well, though, because she hadn't noticed before.

Every muscle in Clarice tightened, and the roots between her feet and the floor withdrew. "I need to get my mail."

Outside, she leaned on the rail of her porch. The cool air eased her nausea. Her breathing slowed. All her mail, same as ever, was stacked just under the awning. The normalcy almost made her angry.

_Could I run? Could I call someone, right now? Do I want to?_

_Nothing would come of it if I did. He'd be gone and I might be dead. _

_I wonder if he ever looked like A.J. did today._

None of these dozen questions would be answered by staring at her mail. She loaded her arms with a package, six newspapers, and a stack of bills, toddling to the door. She managed to open it with her pinkie and hips. That done, she set the whole mess down on her kitchen table to sort through.

"Clarice."

His stillness was no longer that of a cat waiting to pounce. Something had changed enough to make him ignore the stove. No purr in his voice—nothing, actually, that she could recognize. He wasn't even looking at her.

"Is there any reason for you to be receiving fertilizer in the mail?"

"No…"

He inclined his head. His eyes had not left the package she'd brought in, but they suddenly, startlingly, flipped to her.

"Please, Clarice, come here."


	7. 7: Darkening Paths

**Chapter Seven: Darkening Path**

* * *

_Better this present than a past like that;_

_Back therefore to my darkening path again!_

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," Robert Browning

* * *

Clarice could not move, eyes locked on the package.

"But it's postmarked from Ardelia."

"I can tell from the smell, Clarice."

"It's from…Chicago. That can't be right."

"Clarice…"

"Photos. I need to document this. Get the death threats file, collect trace…" She kept mumbling, but her phone was out of her dress pocket snapping evidence. Her arms swung to reach every angle, but her weight never shifted.

"Would you stop taking evidence and step away from the bomb, Special Agent?" he spat.

"I'll need it when I file my…report…" she gaped at him.

"Yes, please let me know what the bomb squad says when they find my DNA all over your kitchen."

"_Fuck_."

"Clarice, _come here_."

She did, and Dr. Lecter, flicking the stove off, led them outside. Clarice was glad for lacking shoes—no _way_ would she be walking steadily in heels right now. That thought kept repeating itself.

With a hand on her arm he urged her to a chair on her front porch. She stared blankly at her feet. She turned up to him, then back down, then across her lawn. How could her neighbor's kid have gotten a two-pound fertilizer bomb from the mailbox to the back porch? He'd just had another growth spurt. He was all gangle and stumble. She picked at the plaid cushion beneath her. She had most of a thread out when she heard Hannibal speak quietly.

"Stay here," He turned to the door.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Taking care of your bomb, my dear."

"What will you do, disarm it with a kitchen knife?"

"No, that would be an unnecessary risk. I'm going to detonate it elsewhere."

"I'm not letting you do that alone."

"Clarice, look at your hands."

They were trembling.

"Your adrenaline is racing and you're experiencing mental shock. You're likely to get us both killed."

She closed her eyes and responded, "I can at least dig the hole. I have some bags of dirt in the garage, too, for barriers." Her FBI training kicked in to high gear; the easiest way to deal with most bombs is to make them explode where you want them to. A large enough hole in the right part of her backyard wouldn't cause much damage, and she at least knew where all the pipes were.

"And the makings for a Molotov," she said with greater reluctance, "Are in the cabinet above the stove. Use the Jack, please. It's almost full and I prefer the bourbon."

"I'm not going to deter you, am I?"

She shook her head.

"Are you sure you can open the garage door smoothly?"

"No. It'd be better to go in through the house."

"Have you got two shovels?"

"Maybe."

"I would normally say 'after you,' but I hope in this particular situation you'll forgive me." Clarice glared as he swung the door open, silent and steady.

Neither spoke once inside. Clarice went to the garage, Hannibal to the kitchen. He returned with the aforementioned bottle as well as a rag and lighter. She brought two shovels, and outside they went.

Circling back around the house, both surveyed the land. Clarice dug her shovel in, pointing out gas and water routes to avoid. The doctor followed suit a few feet away. They dug in silence until their ditches connected.

"I think we're good," Clarice said a little before shoulder-deep.

"Those bags of soil aren't enriched at all?"

_Extra fertilizer wouldn't do…I don't think I have fire insurance. _

"Nope. Cheap stuff."

He nodded, and both waded out of their hole. Even more slowly than before, they reentered the garage, emerging with the bags.

"I thought about gardening once upon a time," Clarice explained absently.

"I hope you planned to do it in that dress." He winked.

She groaned. "Clothes aside, I never found time. It figures, this is the only use they'd get."

After arranging barricades on the house-side of their trench, Hannibal asked, "Please do me the favor of allowing me to get the bomb. You could prepare the whisky if you wish."

"You could just leave. There's no need for you to take this risk."

Both heard the unasked question. Dr. Lecter ignored it, turned, and walked inside. With a few choice words, Ex-Agent Starling opened her bottle and began wetting the rag with whisky. She moved out of the radius he'd traverse—apparently he felt stubborn on that point—and watched as he carried the package out.

_Must be nice to have a heartbeat that ignores fear._

Or did _he_ ignore the fear?

Hannibal approached the trench. One side sloped fairly smoothly, and there he crept down. Clarice stopped breathing when he went out of sight, placing the box on the ground. He returned to her without a word.

"I would appreciate it if you lie down first."

"If you can kneel before throwing it, fine."

Inclining his head once, the doctor took the bottle. Clarice lay flat and covered her head. He moved about halfway between her and the hole, kneeling as promised, lighting the rag in the bottle's neck on fire, and tossing it in. He hit the ground a moment after, then—the explosion.

It almost certainly would have killed her.

Even logically realizing that, the actual fire and thunder gave her pause.

In a few moments Hannibal rolled over and their eyes met. Through unspoken concern he pulled Clarice from her reverie—or was it shock? And the fallout hit.

Abusive foster homes—breaking the law—a week of insomnia—surprise visits from a serial cannibal—and now attempted murder. There was only so much even she could take. Somewhere she felt herself rolling away, curling up—she felt the give of grass beneath her and the burning of panicked breathlessness—but her consciousness was consumed by rage, fear, exasperation, pain. Colors and images and tsunamis of emotion, but not words. No logic. Someone spoke—had to be Hannibal—but she didn't care enough to decipher it.

When he tried to pull her fists from her face, her forearms remained locked in their defensive position. Some soothing words—she couldn't make them out, only hear the tone—made her give.

Kneeling beside her curled form, he took her hands and watched her cry. Clarice stared back, although her vision blurred. Hannibal silently drank in her emotions until they trickled away. The sobs became mere tears. He helped her up.

"Thank you for that, Clarice."

If not for his hands still enwrapping hers, she could have hit him.

"I appreciate the honesty you just afforded me."

"It's been a long week."

"Indeed. Let's go inside and parse it out, what do you say?"

She nodded.

Once inside, he clicked his tongue. "I must apologize. I left the salmon out. It appears our attempted Unabomber spoiled dinner."

Clarice laughed, and downed her wine, and suddenly the world cleared a bit.

"Don't worry. I'm not sure I could eat anyway."

"I find it easier to discuss urgencies over food. Would you like to sit?"

"I need a real chair. I'll be in the living room."

"I'll join you momentarily."

Clarice wandered through the door, but didn't quite make it to the couch. Instead, she folded to the floor. Cabinets opened and closed in the other room. Splayed this far down, she could tell she needed to vacuum.

"Any luck in there?" she called, "I don't keep much on hand."

"I'm managing."

As Hannibal entered, Clarice lumbered into sitting. With a flourish he presented two plates before her. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cut in triangles. Laughter bubbled up again.

"One does what one must. I'll get the wine."

"Bourbon goes great with peanut butter."

"Does it now?"

She waited until he returned to begin. He hesitated to taste his own food, but after a bite, he cocked his head, nodding with some surprise.

"Welcome to American du Jour, Dr. Lecter."

"Damn, I'm good," he purred.

Clarice watched her sandwich very carefully.

"Now, you mentioned a death threat file?"

"It's at the office."

"Have any been recent?"

"Yes. Apparently someone just found my Pennsylvania address. Only at work, though."

"I take it there were no identifiable characteristics?"

"Nothing obvious. I didn't run trace."

"Why?"

"Eleven years in, this is the first one that followed through. I got complacent. It's still bagged, though."

He sighed, and sipped his wine.

"Eleven years, eh?"

Clarice shrugged. "I wasn't famous before you. Now I have a Guinness world record."

"I'd like to see that file."

"Hannibal, you don't have to get involved in this."

"I'd like to." His voice lost its disarming lightness; for a moment, Clarice thought she saw the face Inspector Pazzi probably saw before he plunged over the balcony of the Capponni Library.

"I'd like to do this legally."

"Once upon a time, I was a legal profiler. And I have resources the police do not."

"Which would put you at risk."

"A risk I enter willingly."

"I'm not going to deter you, am I?"

"I merely follow your example…Unless, of course, you want to receive legal aid. A reasonable story could claim that I attacked you. They'll begin tracking me, of course, not the real culprit—and I will leave for good—but your contacts and databases may be of use. It is entirely up to you."

Clarice chewed slowly. "…I'll get the file in the morning."

"Thank you."

For half a sandwich, they ate in silence.

"I suppose our having a normal evening was the anomaly," Clarice remarked, "I can stop holding my breath now."

His smile was grim.

"I'm glad I was here."

"Me, too."

"…they knew about Ardelia."

"Are you surprised?"

"No, it's just—unsettling." _A lot of research went into this. Or just passing knowledge—a colleague, maybe?_

"You've been here about eight months, correct?"

"Yep."

"And done nothing newsworthy, except perhaps for the late Mr. Scott Engle?"

She shrugged. "The timing of murders usually depends on unrelated circumstances—someone comes home early, the mistress changes perfumes…Home Depot briefly runs out of Miracle Grow. Maybe it isn't about recent events."

"This is hardly a crime of passion, completed on a whim."

"Look, I'll figure it out. Something out. Which will be easier in the morning."

"I would appreciate it if you would disappear until _we_ figure something out."

"I'd rather not give them the pleasure. This will be easier from a home base, and I can't just leave with no explanations. I have a job and a mortgage."

"I'd rather you were not in imminent danger."

"You're not the only one, but this isn't exactly my first time."

"Being shot in the line of duty is one thing. This was orchestrated. This is not a person who will stop the first time."

Clarice knew that, of course, but she still frowned. Someone had the resources for this. It wasn't like she didn't have a laundry list of enemies, but there were few who could pull this off and who would actually bother.

"No one actually liked Mason Verger, right?" she asked.

"He had a sister, but I wouldn't say 'liked' described their relationship."

"The file, then. Those are our working suspects."

"Must it wait?"

"If I try to drive right now I guarantee you I'll fall asleep. And you are _not _driving me to work. I'm past the point of processing, anyway, it wouldn't help."

Hannibal rose and held a hand out, which Clarice took with a raised brow.

"Come." He led her back to the kitchen, flipping through her cassette collection and finding something jazzy. Opening the tape deck, he removed a cassette labeled, "Lecter, Oct 3 1988." Clarice choked.

With a smirk, he put a finger over her lips. "No need. You've had enough for one day."

But his eyes sparkled, and she knew this wouldn't be the end of this discussion.

The next tape began to play and Dr. Lecter took her hands, leading her in a waltz around her kitchen.

"You are beginning to panic again. Breathe. Tell me about your recent case."

"His name was A.J. and he has a green bunny and a mother who loves him."

"That must make you happy."

"They're all scarred for life, but I think they'll at least avoid jail."

"Some of us relate to that feeling."

Clarice shook her head with a smile, but it waned with a thought. "If the system did what it was supposed to, none of this would have happened. They would have been safe. And the self-defense clause would have protected Rob. But it's broken. I…I did the right thing."

She looked at him with her eyes wide.

"You don't have to convince me."

Her head fell to his chest. Definitely too much to process. Instead, she let this man sway her in lazy circles around her kitchen.

Several songs later, he murmured, "Have you considered how isolated you are?"

"It's why I chose this house."

"You're an easy target."

"I can't just leave."

"No, you_ won't _leave."

"This won't disappear just because I run."

"Then let me stay."

Clarice stopped dancing. He merely watched her. Her eyes darted in debate, and his wolfish smile returned.

"Only on the couch, my dear. You haven't got any form of security. Perhaps tomorrow we'll have more leads, but tonight—we both need to sleep in peace—and I hope I'm not the only one who would find that easier if I stayed here."

"There are blankets in the hall closet," Clarice whispered, and she said goodnight and left before she could second-guess herself.

All she wanted was to crumple in bed and collapse, but her brain was never so kind. The crumpling did happen, but the passing out—despite her exhaustion—took a while.

Hannibal Lecter was helping her—acting overprotective, even?

Someone was trying to kill her? She'd managed to be so civil, lately.

Would the trial work out? If not, she'd be going to jail, too.

Could she accept that fate? Could she submit to her fallen idol, the justice system?

Could she even forgive that idol for the years she'd given it, with nothing in return but a bullet in the back (not to mention one in the shoulder)?

Could she ever go back?

Should she have phoned the FBI? Should she have pretended the bomb came from Hannibal Lecter, MD? Should she have turned Rob in?

Would a damn thing ever be the same? Or, for that matter, sane?

And it all circled back to question number one.

Clarice tossed angrily, and eventually fell asleep by force of will.

* * *

Thank you guys for all the support! It's meant a lot to me, especially every review. I'm sorry I can't chug words out as often as I'd like (student teaching, enough said), but I hope y'all don't mind quality over quantity. My best to all of you.


	8. 8: Longest Journey

**Chapter Eight: Longest Journey**

* * *

_Build then the ship of death, for you must take_

_The longest journey, to oblivion._

_And die the death, the long and painful death_

_That lies between the old self and the new. _

D.H. Lawrence, "A Ship of Death"

* * *

Light drifted in. Soft noise—the vents, the morning birds. Warmth. Warm blankets. All swirled together, coalescing, growing into her awareness.

Clarice blinked. Sucking a breath, she realized she was awake. Her limbs floated. Drowse blinked away. The only thing vaguely jolting was that she _hadn't_ been jolted awake.

Pieces of the past few days returned to her: bombs, deaths, abuse, impeding a criminal investigation. Hannibal Lecter. After sleep, though, _real sleep—_none of these were overwhelming.

Downstairs, she padded into the smell of coffee and bacon.

"Am I still dreaming?"

"Taste breakfast, and let me know," Dr. Lecter replied from his position at the stove. Clarice got a mug and started on the coffee.

"Definitely dreaming," she answered, hopping on the counter.

He just stared at her, seated across his workspace.

"Do I offend your sense of taste, doctor?"

"Your backcountry accent and manners have always been…oddly charming. I merely wish I could show you what it is to have a real meal."

"I've had one, believe it or not."

"I highly doubt that."

"I've a scale upstairs that will tell you otherwise." A few more pieces of bacon went into the sizzle, and Clarice wondered where he'd acquired them. She probably had some frozen somewhere. Definitely no eggs—she wasn't ever home long enough for those to keep.

"A meal is more than consuming sustenance; it is a complete sensory experience. Anticipation. Smell. The feel of varnish, or true silver tableware. Taste, talk, air, all seamlessly blended—it can be quite enchanting."

"We tried that once. As I remember, it didn't end well." He had included real silverware, though. And cut crystal, forensics said, although Clarice's memory was too fuzzy to say for certain.

Clarice eyed the good doctor from over her cup. His head dropped, but he grinned. "It wasn't my best."

"It was my worst."

"Was it now?"

"I still don't drink white wine."

"That man was no lamb, Clarice."

"I've never understood—why the show? You could've left. No risk, everything to gain. It makes no sense."

"That was a different lifetime." His attention returned to the skillet.

"No, actually. It was less than a year ago and I remember every detail." Was now the time to press this? Clarice's subconscious shrugged and sipped its coffee.

"He wanted to destroy you. He was despicable and he deserved to exemplify the contempt he made others feel."

"With the feds on the way? With me upstairs, waiting to join you in an—an evening gown?" _And you get to decide? And why are you still here? _

His eyes caging hers once more, he enunciated, "I needed to be sure you understood me."

"I've been chasing you for over a decade. I'm fairly sure I had some idea."

"Let's let it rest and have a pleasant breakfast, shall we? It's going to be a difficult day." He loaded bacon and toast onto two plates, moving to the table. Clarice refilled her half-empty mug and followed.

"I take it you slept well?" Hannibal asked when she finally sat.

"Better than I have in weeks."

His smile had a distinct air of self-satisfaction, and she chided herself for mailing an overnight-shipping parcel to his ego. It was just the exhaustion. Having a serial killer downstairs definitely was _not_ the thing helping sooth her to sleep.

"Did I even spread out the couch? I'm sorry. Last night was…" She shook her head.

"I managed perfectly well. Thank you."

She glanced—then gaped—at the clock. "I should be at work right now."

"On Sunday? Do you still cherish _no _simple pleasures in life, Agent Starling?"

"It's not every Sunday. I should write my report on the last case, that's ASAP. And Mrs. Rowe usually insists on feeding me. She hates how much I work. But you know… it is really hard to care right now." Clarice punctuated that statement with a bite of toast.

"I suppose you _are_ being fed." Their glance lasted long enough that Clarice doubted whether it would be more uncomfortable to look away, or to keep staring.

A pounding at the door broke their idyll. Clarice's widening eyes met a single disinterested blink. Hannibal rose, bringing his plate with him.

"I will trust you in this, Clarice." Somehow those words shot even more adrenaline through her than the intruder had. He secreted into her small-but-manageable pantry while she suppressed the trembling and rose to answer the door.

The FBI would have announced themselves, she reasoned. Killers wouldn't bother to knock. Hannibal was less than a shout away. She felt the pocket of her terrycloth robe—gun present. All accounted for, she looked through the peephole.

Outside, Rowe ran a hand through his hair. He paced and cussed, then beat the door again. Clarice opened up.

"You're alive. Thank God," he choked.

"What?" _How could he possibly know about the bomb? _

"You didn't answer your cell, you weren't at the office like usual, and I just got this." He shoved a Ziploc bag at her. Only after a few moments of staring did its contents begin to sink in.

Encased in plastic: a photograph of her, primarily her face. Two red "X"s blotted the eyes. Words were scribbled at the bottom, but not in English. The back had no kind of postage, no identifying marks. Still transfixed, she shuffled aside. "Come in."

They plodded to the living room, Clarice sitting against a plaid blanket neatly folded over the arm of the couch. Ardelia had sent it as a house-warming present. Last night's package, and its postmark, rang a warning through Clarice's head. Rowe stood, still mussing his thinning hair.

"Where was this exactly?" she asked.

"Shoved under the door of the office. Not the mail slot, the door. I thought we'd do lunch after Barb and I got back from church, like usual. You weren't there, and that photo was, and goddamnit Starling, where's your phone?"

"I forgot to plug it in last night. It's been a long week."

"Fuck." Rowe paced again. "Sorry to barge in. I was scared."

"Don't worry. I'm fine."

"It's just that this was hand-delivered. That means the perp's close, Starling, and it's probably personal."

"Let me keep this. I'll go get the file and see what I can figure out."

"You should get out of this empty house. I don't like you being alone, not with a crazy this close. You can come with us."

"I'll figure something out. Just… just let me process." Something in the photograph was setting off buzzers in Clarice's head. She just needed a few quiet moments. Sinking to the couch, she tuned out Rowe's clipped steps. A memory was shifting into place when Rowe spoke.

"Clarice?"

She looked up.

"I said, has there been anything else suspicious like this?"

_Just a hand-delivered fertilizer bomb._

"No, nothing."

"That writing at the bottom?"

_Hannibal probably knows. _

"No idea."

"This needs to go to the police. Maybe the feds. You need legal protection and forensic specialists."

"Rowe, I know the system. I'll get the rest of the threats, get it all officially in. I can't deal with feds before coffee, can you? Just give me a few hours."

"Only if you'll let me shell for a hotel room."

"I can afford my own hotel if that's necessary, Rowe."

"First off, I know how much I pay you, so that's not true. Second, it _is_ necessary, and if you're going to be stubborn about this then it'll be me and Barb's. And I don't want you at that hotel alone, either."

_That will be fun when another package shows up. And no Hannibals allowed. "We're Hannibal-friendly! Small deposit required."…don't get hysterical, Clarice. _

"Please let me think. I need to figure this out in my head."

"Your gun?"

Clarice patted her robe. Rowe raised an eyebrow as though he wanted to say, _always carry a .45 in your PJs? _Instead, he pleaded, "…tell me what else I can do. I'm panicking."

"Go to brunch with your wife. Is she in the car?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Peter. Go. I'll be safe. I know the rulebook."

He watched the ground, pausing for a moment from pacing and cursing and hair-ruining. In his head, Clarice knew, he was weighing her experience and skills against the facts of stalkers and risks of leaving. Likely the risks of pushing her too far, as well. Clarice distracted herself from panic to maintain her capable persona. _He's wearing the blue suspenders. He never wears those. Odd. And he's been twisting his wedding ring, I can see the tan line. _

She met his eyes evenly when he finally had an answer.

"I expect a call once per hour."

"I expect to be paid overtime."

"Done."

They shook. Clarice led Rowe to the door, closing it behind him and leaning her face against the wood. Her façade fell. This was definitely personal, and she was angry. Afraid, but mostly angry. She felt Hannibal without seeing or hearing him, but did not turn around.

Finally, he said, "May I see this photo?"

She led him back to the couch, where she had left the Ziploc and her coffee. He did not have to look more than a moment.

"…as I feared. This is about us."

"I don't…follow."

"You said this was an unusual elevation of hostilities."

"Yes."

"You believed that, as nothing significant had changed in your life, the timing was coincidence. Yes? You failed to include my appearance as a change—understandable, as ideally no one would have known. However, this photo was of us both."

"I knew I recognized it…the back deck."

"Taken from deep in your woods, by the angle. Forgive me for agreeing with Mr. Rowe—I'd still rather you didn't stay here."

"Okay, someone took my photo with you," Clarice said, glossing over the request for her to leave, "This makes no sense. If their motive was our relationship, why are you cropped out?"

"There's also the text."

"What does it say?"

"Middle Italian, Dante. _Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore." _

"And that means…?"

"'Justice moved my Divine Maker.' It is part of the script supposedly written over the gates of Hell."

"There are people other than you who know classics."

"Don't tell me you're still desperately insisting this is random. I know you are a better investigator than that."

"Of all the things, though. Dante?"

"Don't you remember our little chat from the Capponni library? My last public gig, as it were. As a scholar of his work."

Frowning, Clarice downed a long drag of her chilled drink. Capponni. The perfume and disemboweling. Naturally. She replied, in perfect deadpan, "I suppose this makes the suspect pool deeper."

Dr. Lecter surprised himself with his own laughter.

"At least it clarifies the plan of action," she mused, "I'm not letting you abandon me now. I need to know everyone you've pissed off in the last thirty or so years with the means and inclination to pull this off."

"I'm afraid you're correct. It's a rather long list. With good ole Mason out of the way, though, we can probably focus on the recent ones. Got a pen?"

"I'll get one."

"Do charge your phone while you're upstairs," he called when she was nearly at her bedroom anyways.

She returned, and in writing that list, Hannibal shared more details about himself than he ever had before.

* * *

"If I may make a few calls, we can narrow these names down even further."

"Sure." Clarice had already filled her—third?—cup, and paced the room. "I do need to go get that file."

"I'd like to see it."

"You'd have to stay here."

He raised an eyebrow. _Any other news? _

"I'll be back in thirty minutes."

He nodded, pulling a phone from nowhere.

Clarice drove faster than usual, ignoring a few stop signs on the way. During church service on a Sunday, the roads were fairly empty, but every car was still a threat. Every empty road, a hazard. If there were more than one backcountry road between her and work, she'd take it, but this wasn't DC.

She entered the hair salon next door and went through the back into the offices. Shadows cast ghosts around every corner. After clearing the place, Clarice went to her desk to retrieve her files.

Beneath the file, a scrap of paper hid.

Hades and Persephone, Neptune and Amphitrite—Clarice never could tell, precisely, except that she was sure the women wore her face—but it was once of the few pieces of evidence she'd stolen from the FBI on her way out: the final page of that fateful letter. The drawing, hardly even a sketch, spoke of sure and practiced hands, used to evoking their user's thoughts with a swipe. Her heart stopped, just briefly, and she slid the paper into her file.

No use letting someone else find it now.

The entire case followed her back to her car—through the front, this time—and she was off. Clarice wanted nothing more than to stop and think, breathe even, but that wasn't an option with a potential tail.

She felt the panic rising, but ignored it, counting the breaks in the dotted line separating the road. Someone was trying to kill her—nothing new. Someone was trying to kill her and knew about Hannibal's visits—that was…strange. That photo would be worth thousands to a tabloid, but the unsub wasn't after money. And why was Hannibal cut out of it? Was the unsub trying to hide his existence, too? But if it was to be specific to her, why the Italian?

A dark sedan turned onto the road behind her. Clarice took the next right, and the vehicle did not pause. She floated through another few blocks of neighborhood to be safe.

The next car behind her was a silver SUV. One turn was not enough to shake them. Clarice turned and turned again—nothing. Finally, she pulled her trump card and sped to park at the police station. Sure enough, the car passed her by after that.

Clarice leaned her seat back, staring between the police insignia and the papers spread across her passenger side. This is where her case file should go. An official investigation could be opened, the proper channels and resources procured, and legal protection ensured.

Clarice grabbed the door's handle, but remembered A.J.'s face, then Hannibal's.

Could the system help her? Would it? Did she want them to?

Even if she did, was she willing to risk Dr. Lecter?

She closed her eyes, and went back to the deepest part of her mind, where, as a little girl, she would sometimes ask her daddy the hard questions.

_What do I do? _

_What feels right in your gut? _

_My gut's too jacked on adrenaline, Daddy. _

_Good thing you already knew the answer, sweetheart._

Clarice didn't want to believe the voice in her head, but nonetheless, she shifted out of neutral and drove home.

* * *

Breath stolen. Body jerked. Cold and sharp at her throat. Gone as quickly.

"Forty-five minutes, Clarice. Tsk tsk." Dr. Lecter released her smoothly, and she slid off the back door. He had to have recognized her, which meant he was just making a point. Her lips pulled thin.

"Spent time losing a tail."

"A tail or a suspected tail?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Point."

"I'm staying here until this is over."

"That is unwise."

"I'm aware."

"Not solely to feed your idealism, I hope? Making a last stand?"

"This person wants me, bad. I could let them keep chasing or I could draw them out and get it done."

"I cannot sleep here forever, and I do not like the thought of you doing this alone."

"I'm not especially fond of it, either."

"I could quicken the process."

"I'm not sure I want your brand of help, Doctor."

His toothed smile appeared. "That's a shame, because I believe that's exactly how our friend would like to help you."

"You mayhave noticed I don't like to kill people."

"I have considered that for a _long_ time, Clarice."

"And I really don't like that I'm being run off."

"Well, then it seems a convenient thing that I _do." _He relished her expression a few seconds before winking, "Like killing people, that is."

"No one needs to die, here. Not yet."

"Is that your file?" Clarice blinked, then nodded, holding it forward. She'd memorized most of it already, and she planned on being thoroughly annoyed when he found more insight in ten minutes than she had in months.

Hannibal settled down on the couch and began flipping, separating papers into stacks.

"This is quite a lot to never turn in. You have almost as much fan mail as I did."

"Maybe there's a Guinness record for that, too."

His hands stilled when he found the sketch.

_Damnit._

"I don't remember anything threatening in this particular letter," he said lightly.

"It was just with the things in my desk." Clarice took the paper from his hands, setting it aside and asking, "Are you going to tell me what the sorting means?"

"Useless, less-useless, and suspect." There were only two letters in the "suspect" pile.

"And why is that?"

"These," he tapped the largest bunch, "are idle boredom. Attention-seeking, maybe. Some have return addresses. Nothing truly emotional. These, these at least have feeling behind them, and they're anonymous. They might help us determine how people reach you. Perhaps several are from the same person and we can trace a pattern, although I'd need a few more minutes to determine that. They reference me, as well, which I think at this point we can say is key."

"And these," he said on the final two, "combine the above elements and were delivered to your Pennsylvania work address. You've gotten nothing at home?"

"Not since I left Washington. Excusing the bomb."

"Naturally."

"This is…much more straightforward than how you typically help me on cases."

"My goal is no longer to open your eyes."

Clarice waited for him to finish that statement, but his face remained blank.

"I can't leave," she said, "I'm not running. I've already told you you're not leaving me behind, and it's not like there's anywhere I can travel with you and get this done, without running"

"You said you'd chased me for ten years. Do you think I can't solve that problem?"

"I can't have you trying to feed this one to me, too."

"I rarely make a mistake twice, Clarice, if that was one. I fear I may have begun this debacle. Let me help you."

"Promise me."

"…You'll have to be more specific."

"You won't kill this person unless it's truly necessary. My definition of necessary."

"If you will avoid all unnecessary risks, which include refusing my help."

"Fine."

"I promise, Clarice."

She took a deep breath, feeling events click into place at those words. Hannibal was a man—no, a force of nature—who kept promises.

"Alright. What next?"

* * *

End of Chapter Notes

I'd just like to thank every reviewer, follower, favorite-r, and reader. You guys are amazing. Unless I announce otherwise, never fear that this story is totally abandoned—between four jobs and a marriage, life gets in the way of my writing, but this story is twisted into my brain now and I will finish it even if it kills me and serves me my own brain.

Much love to you all.

Tata, K


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